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I: I i:^r o SAY A, 1:^1 ii !; I'l 'V 'X i: ■'• 'i' ' 1 i^-i 



THE MIRROR OF LIEE. 



THE 



MIRROR OF LIFE. 



EDITED BY 



MKS. L. C. TUTHILL. 



' Trust no future, iowe'er pleasant ; 
Let the dead past "bury its dead — 
Act — act in the living present. 
Heart within, and God o'erhead." 

LONSrELLOW. 



PHILADELPHIA: 
LINDSAY AND BLAKISTON. 



7^5^- 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1847, 

By Lindsay and Blakiston, 

la the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Eastern District of 
Pennsylvania. 



"*^ , ■ C. SHERMAN, PRINTER, 

tV 19 St. James Street. 

X 



PREPACE. 



Intended as this volume is, to present to the view of its 
readers the various stages of life's progress, from the first 
dawnings of infancy to old age, no more appropriate title 
could be selected than " The Mirror of Life" to indicate its 
contents. The matter is all original, and from the pens of 
favourite Authors of our own country. The plates are from 
pictures or designs by American Artists, never before en- 
graved ; and with one exception, were prepared expressly for 
this Work. Presenting thus an array of talent, in the letter- 
press and the embellishments, rarely to be met, the publishers 
trust that the public will find this purely American book well 
deserving of patronage. 



ILLUSTRATIONS, 



ENGRAVED BY 



JOHN SARTAIN, PHILADELPHIA. 



BOYHOOD OSGOOD Frontispiece. 

INFANCY SCHMITZ Vignette Title, 

CHILDHOOD EICHHOLTZ 31 

GIRLHOOD ROSSITER 55 

MAIDENHOOD ROTHERMEL 87 

THE BRIDE ROSSITER 119 

THE MOTHER ROSSITER 145 

THE WIDOW ROSSITER 165 

MANHOOD ROTHERMEL 185 

OLD AGE ROTHERMEL 236 

THE SHROUDED MIRROR REV. DR. MORTON 240 



CONTENTS. 



THE MIRROR OF LIFE 13 

THE INFANT AND THE 

SUNBEAM REV. G. W. BETHUNE, D.D 15 

THE CHILDREN OF THE 

POOR REV. CLEMENT M. BUTLER 17 

LE PETIT SOURD-MUET..MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY" 23 

THE PETITION MRS. L. C. TUTHILL 26 

GOOD NIGHT ..ANONYMOUS 29 

CHILDHOOD MISS CAROLINE E. ROBERTS 30 

BOYHOOD MRS. FRANCES S. OSGOOD 34 

MY SCHOLARS BUSHROD BARTLETT, ESQ 36 

DREAMLAND MELODY ....WILLIAM S. HARTWELL 51 

BESSIE NEWTON ALICE G. LEE 55 

THE FROZEN STAR ARIA 57 



X CONTENTS. 

COLLEGE HONOURS THE EDITOR 58 

THE INSANE GIRL. .... ....FANNIE OF FARLEIGH 81 

THE WHITE HAND ANONYMOUS 86 

THE WIDOWER'S DAUGH- 
TER MRS. L. C. TUTHILL 87 

THE ORPHAN HOPE HESSELTINE 108 

A FEMALE PURSUIT IN 

ANCIENT TIMES REV. GEORGE E. ELLIS 113 

HYMN OF THE BLIND 

GIRL ANONYMOUS 118 

THE BRIDE W 119 

THE LATHROPS REV. H. HASTINGS WELD 122 

THE INSPIRATION MRS. SARAH J. HALE 146 

THE MOTHER'S DREAM ..MRS. L. C. TUTHILL 148 

THE DISMAL YEAR H 153 

EARLY INFLUENCE MISS ANNE W. MAYLIN 157 

WIDOWHOOD MISS CATHARINE M. SEDGWICK. 165 

MANHOOD REV. M. A. DE WOLFE HOWE 178 

HUMAN POWER THOMAS BUCHANAN READ 185 

SCENE IN A STUDIO ......AUTHOR OF "WREATHS AND 

BRANCHES" .....187 

THE MERIDIAN OF LIFE. .REV. WILLIAM B. SPRAGUE, D.D.191 

THE ANCIENT MAIDEN.. .ARIA 198 

THE MOTHER'S GRAVE. ..MRS. E. F. ELLETT. 201 

A STRONG MAN NEVER 
CHANGES HIS MENTAL 

CHARACTERISTICS J. T. HEADLEY 205 

THE CHILDLESS WIDOW. .ELIZABETH 214 

THE AGED PENITENT ....S. S. T 217 



CONTENTS. xi 

HAPPINESS IN A HOVEL. .N 219 

THE GREAT ENIGMA REV. JOHN WILLIAMS 222 

RETROSPECTION O. E. D 226 

OLD AGE THE EDITOR 236 

" THERE REMAINETH A REST TO THE PEOPLE OF GOD.". 240 



THE MIRROR OF LIFE. 



' Now, we see through a glass, darkly; — then, face to face." 

1 Cor. xiii. 12. 



I. 

From Mercy unending 

A light is descending, 
Which falls on the Mirror of Life, 

To aid us in seeing 

The end of our being, 
Mid changes, and sorrow, and strife. 

11. 

The spirit undying. 

While childhood is flying, 
The joys of the moment engage ; 

A bird, it is singing, 

Contentedly swinging. 
Unconscious as yet of its cage. 
2 



14 THE MIRROR OF LIFE, 

III. 

While manhood is fleeting, 
Impatient 'tis beating, 

The strength of its prison to prove ; 
In age it is waiting. 
Till slowly the grating 

The hand of decay shall remove. 

IV. 

When poverty, scorning. 
And sickness, and mom'ning, 

In darkness the spirit enshroud. 
The heavenly lightning 
The shadow is brightening. 

And purity follows the cloud. 



Temptations receiving. 

And conquests achieving. 
Its virtue is strengthened each hour. 

Till victory gaining. 

And glory obtaining, 
It triumphs in perfected power. 



THE INFANT AND THE SUNBEAM. 

BY THE KEV. e. W. BETHUNE, D.D. 

" Of such is the kingdom of Heaven." 
I. 

I HEARD a gentle murmuring, 

'Twixt laughter and a tune. 
Or like a full brook gurgling 

Through the long grass in June. 

11. 

I traced the sound — an infant lay 

There in his cradle bed. 
And through the curtains shone a ray 

Of sunshine on his head ; 

III. 

It flashed from off" each golden tress, 

Like the glory painters see, 
Round young John in the wilderness. 

Or Christ on Mary's knee. 



16 THE INFANT AND THE SUNBEAM. 

IV. 

The child put up his little hand. 

He waved it to and fro, 
And words, I could not understand, 

Seem'd from his lips to flow ; 

V. 

Words in which joy and love would blend, 
As though he thought the while, 

The light to be a pleasant friend, 
A friend with a pleasant smile. 

VI. 

Thus, till the sunny ray grew dim, 
As it passed the window-pane. 

He murmured on his happy hymn. 
Then fell asleep again. 

VII. 

O God, I thought, that I could be 
Like that meek, little child. 

To greet thy Truth which shines on me. 
With brow as undefiled. 

VIII. 

And then with lips as innocent, 
And heart as free from guile, 

Sing of thy love in glad content. 
Look up, and see Thee smile. 



THE CHILDREN OF THE POOR. 



BY THE KEV. CLEMENT M. BUTLER. 



There is no class of our fellow-beings that ought to awaken 
a deeper interest in our hearts, than the children of the poor. 

Is there anything so touchingly helpless as a poor child de- 
prived by crime or misfortune or death of its natural pro- 
tector ? It seems as it stands, sad, frightened, and wondering 
in its helplessness, to ask, " What am I sent here for V 

The young of animals soon learn by instinct to find their food 
spread upon nature's table. But a parent's care is to the child 
in the place of instinct, and a parent's hand the source of its 
supply. When through poverty or crime or death, a child is 
deprived of such guardianship, what is so pitiful, what so help- 
less ? What can it do but stand up in its rags and say, in the 
inarticulate but expressive eloquence of tears, " Here I am, 
God's creature, left alone to perish. Will any man take me 
that I die not ?" And if none come, what can the poor child 
do but lay its head upon its dead mother's breast, and wail 
itself into the sleep which has no waking ? 

Sad as their case is, yet in the present disjointed state of 
things, they subserve a high moral purpose. We owe much 
to the children of the poor. They keep soft and tender the 
hearts of humanity. They are sent into the world poor and 
suffering, not that they may remain so, but that they may be 
released by the prosperous and happy, and thus impart a bless- 



18 THE CHILDREN OF THE POOR. 

ing as large as they receive. What would a human heart he 
which never had its sympathy awakened ! What an unlovely 
thing would that heart be which had never felt another's pain ! 
Without pity, the hearts of all would stiffen into cold and rigid 
selfishness. It is pity which 

" Softens human rock-work into men." 

Mercy could not live in the human heart without an object. 
Suffering has furnished occasion for the most glorious mani- 
festations of God, and given birth to, and strengthened, the 
holiest sympathies of man. Instead of fruitlessly endeavouring 
to form anew a world whence suffering shall be excluded, let 
us rather endeavour to evolve the designed blessing out of the 
permitted evil. Well does the wise and eloquent proverbialist 
declare : 

" Sin is an awful shadow, but it addeth new glories to the light ; 
Sin is a black foil, but it setteth off the jewelry of heaven ; 
Sin is the traitor which hath dragged the majesty of mercy into action." 

Let us remember, then, the children of the poor have their 
mission to the world, and as they come to us, let not their 
heavenly message be all unheeded and unheard. As we think 
of them with reference to the duty which we owe to them, let 
us not forget that they are entrusted with a divine blessing, to 
be imparted in return to us. 

What is that little neglected thing that is playing on the 
floor, while its mother toils with sinking heart for bare bread ; 
while the father is off on riot, or comes home only to rob those 
for whom he should provide ? What is it 1 What will it be 
if left there and thus 1 What might it be if taken elsewhere 
and placed under other influences ? It is a jewel of more 
worth than the world upon which it lives. It is an immortal 



THECHILDREN OFTHEPOOR. 19 

endowed with eternal capabilities. It is capable of purity and 
advancement under right environment; but it has an inner 
aptitude to evil which outer occasions call forth and strengthen. 
Yet even with this aptitude to sin, if from the earliest years it 
be the object of constant kindness to call forth its affections ; 
if it be subjected to discipline and self-control ; if it be early 
taught filial fear, reverence and love of God ; if it be instructed 
in God's word and will; if it allow the spirit of God to work 
penitence towards God and faith in Jesus ; if it have before it 
constraining and winning examples of holiness; and if it be 
under the descending dews of promised grace given in answer 
to believing prayer ; then shall the soul of that little one which, 
neglected, might have become a burning brand in the world of 
wo, be a glad and eternal light in its father's home in heaven. 
For the soul of that child, open to evil, is not inaccessible to 
good. 

Childhood has tender conscience, teachableness of spirit, 
grateful feeling. Recently from the Creator's hand, his im- 
press upon it seems less effaced than it does on elder hearts. 
Heaven, which has been said to lie about us in our infancy, 
has left some of its odour and its radiance lingering about 
childhood's heart. I know not why it is, but all of us have at 
times felt in the presence of amiable and docile children as if 
a sweet sacredness invested them ; as if they had just taken 
their little heads from the breast of Jesus, when he took them 
in his arms and blessed them. And when we feel this charm 
of childhood in the case of those who are destitute and forlorn, 
it is just that attraction towards them which we should obey, 
that according to the design of the blessed Saviour of the 
world, " we may do them good." 

We would that we might cast on "the Mirror of Life" such 



20 THECHILDRENOFTHEPOOR. 

a faithful and distinct picture of the children of the poor, that 
some readers would be touched with the spectacle, and con- 
secrate their love and their activities to their welfare. It is 
among the most blessed — if it be humble — of all methods of 
doing good. One of its richest rewards is the luxury of the 
act itself. If you wish to see a person thoroughly happy, go 
and look on him who is making children happy. 

It has been said, that if a man has no pleasure in children, and 
children none in him — if his face never brightens when he sees 
them, and his voice does not soften into the tones of affection 
when he speaks to them, that there is something wrong about 
him, and that he is not to be relied upon for anything good and 
disinterested. However that may be, it will be confessed that he 
who cordially loves little children, is made a happier and better 
man by converse with them. Often, indeed, when we see little 
children win to them and make to labour for their amusement, 
alike the amiable and the harsh, the strong-minded and the 
weak, we seem to have the prophecy fulfilled : " The wolf 
also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down 
with the kid and the calf, and the young lion and the fatling 
together, and a little child shall lead them." 

All persons of kindly feelings love to give even momentary 
pleasure to a child. But to entitle ourselves to their lasting gra- 
titude — to be the subject of their daily grateful remembrances 
and of their prayers — to be conscious that we have been the 
honoured instruments of saving them from many sins and sor- 
rows, there are few pleasures so elevated — so sweet — as this ! 

Reader, — to whom the bounty of Providence gave a happy 
childhood, and who art now surrounded by the comforts and 
blessings of a happy home, — remember the children of the 
poor ! Take the hungry, timid, weeping little one by the 



THE CHILDREN OFTHEPOOR. 21 

hand. Provide for it, if you can, a comfortable home. The 
crushed and down-pressed heart of childhood will rise and 
expand again into life, as the flower beaten down by the 
storm lifts its bright head again smilingly in the sunshine, and 
thank you with its sweets. 

Do you know much, — you, who peruse these pages, — do 
you know much of the poor ? I do not ask if you know of 
them as they are depicted in the gilded annual or the illustrated 
tale which lies upon your centre-table ? I mean the real poor 
— those who live in that narrow lane and that neglected hovel, 
which you must soil your shoe to reach, where you will find 
squalor, dirt, and the dissonance of children — in short, deep 
poverty, with all its real and revolting accompaniments. 

In one of those damp and dismal holes, which it is a trial for 
you even to enter, sits a father, cursing the day that he was 
born, murmuring at the unequal allotments of Providence, im- 
precating vengeance for the wrongs of the powerful, the 
wealthy, and the cruel ! His spirit is fierce and vindictive, and 
his inner pollution is more frightful than his outward squalor. 
When he was a poor child, he might have been taken by the 
hand and trained up to a life of usefulness and happiness. 

There is another, who has struggled bravely against the 
waves of poverty, but sickness has unnerved his arm, and he is 
borne down; he is endeavouring to silence in his heart the com- 
plainings of discontent and the denunciations of bitterness, and 
to lift to the Chastener an eye of gratitude and submission, 
though it be suffiised with tears. 

There again is the mother, who, pausing from the toil that 
has killed her, to die, fixes her eye on her w^ondering and 
weeping little one, and, as she consigns it to God, 

" Gives the sad presage of its future years, 
The child of misery, baptized with tears." 



22 THE CHILDREN OF THE POOR. 

And again, in the silence of the night, a voice of complain- 
ing children is heard, waking to weep, crying from cold or 
hunger, or moaning in their sleep — living over again in dreams 
the sad life of their waking hours. It is an awful thing, that 
such things should be in the midst of those who have bread 
enough and to spare ! 

Reader ! repay to the children of the poor something for the 
happiness which they have imparted to you. Remember, that 
when God maketh inquisition for blood, he remembereth them. 
And remember also that the Saviour will say, at the last great 
day, to those who have loved and blessed his poor, " Inasmuch 
as ye have done it unto the least of these, my brethren, ye 
have done it unto me !" 



LE PETIT SOURD-MUET. 



BY MKS. L. H. SiaOURNET. 



I. 

Child of the speaking eye, — 
Child of the voiceless tongue, — 

Around whose unresponsive ear 
No harp of earth is rung, — 

II. 

There's one, whose nursing care 
Relax'd not, — night or day, — 

Yet ne'er hath heard thy lisping word 
Her tenderness repay, — 

III. 

Though anxiously she strove 
Each uncouth tone to frame, 

Still vainly listening through her tears. 
To catch a Mother's name. 



24 LE PETIT SOUR D-MUET. 

IV. 

Child of the fetter'd ear, — 

Whose hermit mind must dwell 

Mid all the harmonies of earth, 
Lone, in its silent cell, — 

V. 

Fair, budding thoughts are thine, — 
With sweet affection's wave, — 

And whispering angels bless thy dreams 
With minstrelsy of love ; — 

VI. 

I knew it, — ^by the smile 

That o'er thy peaceful sleep, 

Glides, like the rosy beam of mora, 
To tint the misty deep. 

VII. 

Child of the pensive brow. 
Search for those jewels rare, 

That glow in Heaven's withholding hand. 
To cheer thy lot of care. 

VIII. 

Hermetically seal'd 

To sounds of wo and crime, 

That vex, and stain the pilgrim soul 
Amid the toils of time, — 



LE PETIT so URD-MUET. 25 

IX. 

By discipline made wise, 

Pass patient on thy way, 
And when rich music loads the air. 

Bow down thy head, — and pray. 

X. 

Child of immortal hope, — 

Still many a gift is thine. 
The untold treasures of the heart, 

The gems from learning's mine, — 

XI. 

And what ecstatic joy, 

The thrilling lip shall prove. 
That first its life-long chain shall burst 

In a pure realm of love ; 

XII. 

What rapture for the ear, 

When its stern seal is riven, 
To drink its first, baptismal sound 

From the full choir of heaven. 



THE PETITION. 

BY MRS. L. C. TUTHILL. 

" I am unworthy, yet, for their dear sake, 

I ask, whose roots planted in me are found ; 

For precious vines are propp'd liy rudest stake, 

And heavenly roses fed in darkest ground. 

" Beneath my leaves, though early fallen and faded, 

Young plants are warmed,— they drink my branches' dew : 
Let them not. Lord, by me be upas-shaded : 
Make me, for their sake, firm, and pure, and true." 

J. F. Clarke. 

" There comes father ! What shall we do V exclaimed 
Lucy Norrie, a bright, fair-haired girl, to her little brother and 
sister. " Do you not hear him ? He is almost on the last 
stair. Walter, dear, hide under that sofa in the corner ; 
Maggie, come with me behind this curtain." 

The boy had scarcely crept into his hiding-place, and the 
rich folds of the drapery of the window were still rustling, 
when the father walked into the parlour, which had just been 
brilliantly lighted for the evening. 

And why should those little ones conceal themselves from 
that handsome young father ? The elegance of his dress, and 
his air, proclaim him a man of fashion ; the splendid apart- 
ment, into which his entrance has caused such commotion, 
bespeaks the wealth of the owner. 



THE PETITION. 27 

He is a married roue ! — A dissipated father ! 

He walks up to the magnificent pier-glass, and after looking 
at himself for a moment, exclaims, with an oath, " Sober !" 

A strange thing, indeed, for Walter Norrie to return home 
from a dinner party sober. The fact could be accounted for 
only in one way : he had dined with a friend who, for the first 
time, had banished wine and strong drinks from his dinner- 
table. 

Poor little Walter sobbed aloud in his corner under the sofa. 
The father heard the noise and, perceiving the shaking of one 
of the curtains, went softly towards the window and gently 
lifted the drapery. 

There knelt his two little girls, with their faces to the wall, 
their hands clasped, and their eyes closed. 

" O God, pity my poor father, and make him a good man," 
earnestly whispered the elder girl, little Lucy. 

Walter Norrie, that arrow, from the quiver of the Almighty, 
has found a crevice in the armour with which vice has guarded 
thy soul. 

The curtain was noiselessly dropped; the sobbing increased. 
The astonished father stooped, and under the sofa saw his only 
boy — his little namesake. 

" Why, Wattie, what is the matter ? Come out here, my 
boy ; are you playing hide and seek V' 

The little fellow cautiously crept from his hiding-place, re- 
garding his father with a terrified air. 

" Do not be frightened, boy. Why did you hide under the 
sofa ?" 

" Because we heard you coming ;" lisped the boy. 

" And why was my son afraid of his dear papa V 

" I am not afraid of dear papa," said the boy, smiling 



28 THE PETITION. 

joyously through his tears, " but I thought it was that naughty 
papa, who strikes Wattie sometimes." 

Lucy and Maggie now stole cautiously from their retreat, 
and, as if to protect their little brother, placed themselves one 
on either side of him, taking his plump, dimpled hands in 
theirs. 

" Mamma has gone to church with Aunt Mary," said Lucy, 
in a deprecating tone. " She told us we might play an hour 
in the parlour before we went to bed." 

" Well, I will not interrupt you. What were you playing, 
Lucy ?" inquired the father, with a pleasant smile upon his 
handsome features. 

Lucy made no answer. 

The father seated himself, and appeared a little impatient. 

" I will tell you, papa," said Maggie : " Lucy was the 
mother, and Wattie was her little boy ; she was sick and very 
sorrowful, and cried a great deal ; I played I was the doctor, 
who had come to see her. I just put on Wattle's little coat 
and cap, as you see, papa. I hope it don't displease you ; we 
were only in fun, you know." 

The father smiled at the droll appearance of his little girl, 
and said, encouragingly, 

" And why was Lucy so sick and sorrowful ?" 

'•' Because, she played, she had a very bad, wicked husband, 
who drank naughty, hateful brandy, that made him crazy." 

Here Lucy burst into an agony of tears. 

" Well, children, you may go to bed now," said Walter 
Norrie ; " come and kiss your poor father." 

Little Wattie sprang to his father's arms and gave him a 
hearty kiss. Maggie followed his example, but Lucy stood 
abashed and irresolute. 



THE PETITION. ' 29 

" And Lucy, have you not a kiss, too, for your father ?" 

Years had passed since these children had received the 
sweet goodnight-kiss from their father. 

Lucy threw her arms around his neck and sobbed aloud 
upon his bosom. Tears dropped from the eyes of Walter 
Norrie upon the fair forehead of his child, as he whispered in 
her ear, 

" Yes, Lucy, pray for your sinful father. Good night." 

Long after the children were sleeping, the wretched father 
paced that splendid apartment. Conscience was wrestling 
with his heart. The man had begun, through the grace of 
God, " to work out his salvation with fear and trembling." 

He knelt in the place hallowed by the holy breathings of his 
child, and there vowed a solemn vow, over which angels in 
Heaven rejoiced. 

That vow was faithfully kept, and Walter Norrie is now a 
Christian father. 



3* 



GOOD-NIGHT. 

A NOISY band from " nursey's" hand, 

They come to bid good-night ; 
No painter bold, on canvass old. 

Has sketched a fairer sight. 
Their bath has shed the roses red 

Upon their dimpled cheeks. 
But on their tops the limpid drops 

Have played the strangest freaks ; 
The stifTest hair has changed its air, 

To order now reclaimed. 
And silken curls, like naughty girls, 

Look sheepish and ashamed. 
Their simple slips M^ith graceful dips 

Have left their shoulders bare, 
And plainly show, from knee to toe, 

How round and white they are. 
Then lowly stoop the little group. 

And fold their hands with care ; 
With lifted eyes and earnest guise, 

They lisp their evening prayer. 
The kiss goes round — good-nights resound- 

They flit, like things of air. 



s 



CHILDHOOD. 

BY MISS CAROLINE E. ROBERTS. 
I. 

The smiles of blessed childhood, — 

How much of joy they tell, — 
Gushing unbidden, warm and free, 

From out the heart's glad well. 
Telling of fountains fill'd with joy, 

Of pleasures new and fair — 
Scattering their cheerful influence 

Like sunbeams, everywhere. 

n. 

The tears of April childhood, 

Which glisten as they rise, 
Reflecting back, in rainbow hues, 

Bright colours from the skies. 
For clouds pass lightly o'er the heart, 

Like shadows o'er a lake. 
So grief upon the guileless soul 

Can no sad impress make. 



32 CHILDHOOD. 



III. 



The sports of merry childhood — 

The joyous laugh and bound, 
The gladsome shout that fills the air, 

And echoes round and round. 
The healthful sport — the quiet games, 

The rambles far and wide, 
For flowers in summer, or the tale 

By winter's blithe fireside. 

IV. 

The sleep of sunny childhood — 

How kindly doth it come, 
Rest for the child, as for the flowers, 

When summer day is done. 
In fairy land of pleasant dreams, 

Roameth the sleeper dear, 
And smiles light up the silent face 

As angels whisper near. 

V. 

The prayer of trusting childhood, — 

That simple, earnest faith. 
Which yieldeth to a Father's love 

The care of all it hath. 
Which asketh and receiveth. 

Because no doubts arise. 
But what its simple wishes reach 

" Our Father" in the skies. 



CHILDHOOD. 33 



VI. 



The death of happy childhood, — 

While day has but begun. 
To see the glorious rising 

Of another brighter sun. 
To pass away, ere sorrow comes 

With her chill, with'ring hand — 
Fresh as from God — to pass away 

Into the better land. 

VII. 

The graves of peaceful childhood, — 

Grass-grown and fair to see. 
Watched by affection's loving eye, 

And guarded carefully. 
At eventide the daisies sleep 

Upon the quiet bed, 
While in far deeper slumber rests 

The young — the cherish'd dead. 

VIII. 

The heaven of ransomed childhood ; — 

Oh, Lamb of God once slain ! 
The " little ones" Thou lovest still, 

All worthy is Thy name ! 
In bright array they gather round 

Thy throne of light divine. 
Safe in Thy Love, — no more to roam,- 

Dear Saviour, they are Thine. 



BOYHOOD, 



BY MRS. FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 



A H ! Boyhood ! bright Boyhood ! how beauteous thou art, 

When Life's sunny morning dawns clear in thy heart ! 

When its rose-hues iUumine thy joy-dimpled cheek, 

And its light, laughing hopes in thy happy eyes speak ; 

The bark of thy Destiny launched on Life's tide, 

Thou spring'st to the helm, full of rapture and pride ; 

Though storms gather dark in the distance before thee. 

Thou seest not — thou hearest not — the blue heaven is o'er thee ! 

And the murmur of weaves, and the sparkle of spray. 

Make music, and beauty, and light in thy way ; 

Or if sometimes a shower steal down to the lea. 

The rainbow glows through it — God's promise to thee ! 

And only by islands of bloom and delight 

Thou moorest thy bark at the falling of night. 

But heed'st thou, young stranger ! those clouds in the west 1 

They steal between thee and thy haven of rest ; 

Right onward they come — they are looming more nigh ; 

They darken — they deepen — they shut out the sky ! 

Oh ! far, far beyond them thy spirit must gaze 

For the rainbow of Hope that o'er that tempest plays ; 

It dawns ! — it is glowing — in beauty above ; 

It is lighted in Heaven — by God's smile of love — 



BOYHOOD. 35 

For thee — through thy tears shall that fair signal shine, 
If, in answer, thy flag, be Christ's banner divine ! 
Then shrink not — then doubt not — whate'er thy way be. 
But firm 'neath that banner sail over Life's sea ; 
Through shallows of Folly — by breakers of Sin — 
Untrammelled — triumphant — thy way thou shalt win ; 
And when Earth's fading sun lingers low in the west, ~~ 
While bright beams before thee thy haven of rest. 
Unscathed by the storm — thou shalt take in thy sail, 
No longer the sport of the wave and the gale ; 
While God's holy Angel of Death shall be given 
To pilot thee in — to the portals of Heaven ! 



MY SCHOLARS. 

BY BUSHKOD BAKTLETT, ESQ., 

" Eorum volo esse discipulus, quorum sum et filius." 

Erasmus ex Plut. in Lacon. 

" Many his faults, his virtues small and few ; 
Some little good he did, or strove to do ; 
Laborious still, he taught the early mind, 
And urged to manners meek and thoughts refined." 

DWIGHT. 

Thirty years was I a schoolmaster, thirty happy, and I 
trust, thirty useful years. Yet no sinless cherubs condescended 
to seek the benefit of my instructions, my flock were undenia- 
bly of the posterity of Adam. I had obstinate boys with 
round eyes and upturned noses ; impudent boys, who looked 
the insult they dared not to speak ; passionate boys, who 
slammed desks and upset inkstands ; deceitful boys, who never 
understood the question when not prepared to answer — in 
short, I was blessed with every variety of the bewitching 
torment yclept a boy. 

Among them all, perhaps the most incorrigible were the 
dinner-basket boys ; gingerbread-loving, nut-cracking little ani- 
mals, to whom the crunching of an apple was the sweetest 
of music. A boy whose heart is in the depths of his dinner- 
basket, is a difficult subject to manage. A strong counterac- 



MYSCHOLARS. 37 

tion in the head, or heart, will sometimes quiet the gnawing in 
the stomach. 

One bright morning in autumn, there was a stir among the 
boys near the windows, as a carriage rolled down the quiet 
road leading to the school-house. The carriage stopped, and 
in a few moments Mrs. Benton had introduced her son to his 
new teacher. Will Benton had just passed his twelfth birth- 
day; his tall slight figure was perfectly proportioned, and bent 
to acknowledge the introduction with a grace which would 
have charmed his dancing-master. His round face, bright 
colour and sweet mouth, were relieved from effeminacy by his 
high, bold forehead and sparkling black eyes. 

As Bentonbrook, the country seat of his father, was four miles 
from the school-house, the carriage was not to be sent for Will 
until the close of the afternoon session. He was an only son, 
and many an injunction did I receive from his mother not to let 
him study too hard, or in any way injure his delicate constitu- 
tion. There seemed little danger of it, for health was beaming 
from every feature of his handsome countenance. Before Mrs. 
Benton took her departure, she saw that his neat dinner-basket 
with its fine white napkin, was in a safe place, and I heard her 
whisper, as she bade him good-by, " Your luncheon is at the 
top, darling, and very nice it is." 

" More trouble," thought I ; but a glance at Will's frank, 
pleasant face, diminished my fears. For several days I watched 
with anxiety the gusto with which he devoured the dainties 
which were prepared for him, for I myself was then an humble 
dependant upon a dinner-basket. One little circumstance I 
noticed with pleasure, because it indicated that Will had not 
yet been made totally selfish by the foolish indulgence of his 
parents. An eager group of the smaller boys were standing 

4 



38 MY SCHOLARS. 

around him wistfully regarding him, while he was making 
rapid devastation among his sandwiches and cream-cakes. He 
read their expression and gave them a taste of a style of cook- 
ing which they seemed fully to appreciate. 

The next day I proposed to Will, as I had often done to 
others of my boys, that we should take a little ramble together 
at noon. " We can take our baskets with us," said I, " and dine 
if we please, on the rocks by the river." 

He seemed delighted with the proposal, and we were soon 
on our way. We walked on, familiarly chatting until we came 
in sight of a wretched hovel by the roadside, which had long 
been uninhabited. I had noticed for several days a light column 
of smoke occasionally ascending from the chimney, and that 
day I had learned from a little Irish girl, that her family were 
living there, and in great distress. Telling Will that I had 
occasion to stop there a few moments, I knocked at the door. 
It was opened by the little girl whom I had seen in the 
morning. 

An emaciated woman was asleep upon an old blanket in 
one corner of the room, while a boy, apparently about the age 
of Will, was bending over a few coals stirring a most unin- 
viting-looking mixture in an old tin cup. 

« Is not this little Bridget ?" said I. 

She gave me a joyous glance of recognition, and, dropping a 
low courtesy, hurried towards the boy and whispered, " Spake 
to the gintleman, Larry." 

"Whisht!" said Larry, as, followed by the little girl, he 
stepped outside the door and closed it behind him. " The 
mither's asleep and brathing like a babby, and it's maybe that 
same, that'll be afther putting the old life into her again." 



MYSCHOLARS. 39 

" You are strangers here," said I, " and little Bridget tells 
me that your mother is ill." 

" Sure, and she's not been the same at all, at all, since she 
saw them bury my poor fayther in the deep water. It was 
little we had left when we paid the captain, and stepped 
ashore in the big city. And lone-like and sorryful my poor 
mither filt, a lone widder in the counthry where she had been 
draming of living in an illigant house, with everything dacent 
about her, for sorra a body could bate my fayther in any work 
he turned his hand to. Though its choking she was with her 
feelins, she made bould to be axing a very nate, presintable 
gintleman she met, to put her in the way of feedin her childer. 
He called her an Irish beggar, a rascally immigrant, and a 
thaving paddy, and the like o' that, and that was all the direc- 
tion she got. ' Sure,' said my mither, ' it's not in the big city 
we'll find the kind hearts, and we'll lave it behind us.' She 
claned out her pocket to buy us some bread, and then told us 
to follow her. Hard walking it was, for she wint like the 
wind,— niver turning to spake to us like herself. Three nights 
we slept by the road, ating our bread without spaking, for 
somehow her eyes rolled, and she was so strange-like, that we 
were afeard of her. It's little objection we made when she 
stopped at the door here and said she must rist. We spread 
the blanket for her there in the corner, and niver a mouthful 
has she tasted these three days — though its wather she's been 
callin' for, from mornin' till night. It's ould Ireland I've been 
longing for, and the praste and my cousins — for I could not 
make up my lips for axing anything from the could-hearted 
furriners, who gave my poor mither the black tongue, when 
wake and waving like a reed she was axing for work." 

" Niver a bit would I have stirred," interrupted Bridget, " if 



40 MY SCHOLARS. 

I had not come to the knowledge that Larry was starving the 
life out of him for mither and me. Yesterday morning he 
gives me some bread, and siz he, * Sit here by the mither, and 
watch if she stirs, while I go outside and ate a bit of break- 
fast in the fresh air.' He had not lift her before, and he was 
looking down-hearted like, and I thought a sup of the breezes 
would do him no harm, so I sat down as asy as you plase. 
Purty soon he came back, and tucking something in the sack, 
he began to talk of whin he should be a man, and the mither 
and me be livin' with him, with everything gould about us. 
At noon and at night, he took to ating outside agin ; he tried 
to be cheery, but I saw it wasn't his nat'ral way. This morn- 
ing he took his crust and went out ; as soon as the door was 
shut, I kept asing along till I got just by the hole there ; I 
looked through ; there was Larry on his knees, and as thrue as 
there is a sky above us, I heard him say, ' O God, help me to 
kape my promise to fayther, and take care of poor mither and 
Bridget. Give me strength to fight with the craving that 
would timpt me to be ating what's to keep the life in the dar- 
lints,' and the like o' that he kept repeating. When he got up 
from his knees, he came in at the door quite nat'ral-like, wiping 
his mouth as if he had had an illigant breakfast. I knew he 
had desaived me, and was goin' to put it to him, but jist thin 
the mither opened her eyes, and asked Larry, jist like herself, 
to give her something to eat. 

" ' Sure, mither,' says he, ' and it's a jewel of a broth I'll be 
afther making you.' Then he went to the ould sack foreninst 
the wall there, and took out the ould crusts as dry as a stick, 
and while h^ was putting a sup of water to them, I ran out of 
the door, and niver stopped till I came to the great house 
where I saw your honour and all the purty young gintlemen, 
and it's not till this minute that Larry knew that I went." 



MY SCHOLARS. 41 

Poor Larry was too much confused at finding his self-denial 
thus discovered, to interrupt little Bridget while she was re- 
lating her story. 

I turned to look at Will ; great tears were rolling down his 
cheeks. " Here, give it to them," said he, handing me his 
basket. 

We made the children sit down, and Will saw them devour 
his dinner, with a purer satisfaction than he had ever before 
experienced. 

I noticed that Larry laid aside what he considered the most 
delicate morsels, — I did not doubt they were for his mother, — 
and promised to send her more suitable food. 

The lesson was not lost upon Will. He had found that 
there was more pleasure in a kind action, than a good dinner, 
and he never forgot it. 

The poor Irish woman recovered, and was soon able, with 
Larry's assistance, to obtain a comfortable support. 

I never could bear to inflict pain upon the smallest animal ; 
when I have awkwardly trodden upon a slumbering dog, I 
would have sacrificed all my knowledge of Hebrew, to have 
been sufficiently versed in the canine dialect, to apologize to 
the suffering beast. With these sentiments, the idea of inflict- 
ing corporal punishment was abhorrent to me ; yet, at the 
commencement of my career as a pedagogue, I supposed it 
must be done. As all my own early acquirements had been 
whipped into me, I believed the rod to be an essential accom- 
paniment to the rudiments of learning. 

I was fresh from college when I first took charge of my 
school. In spite of the womanish weakness which I have 



42 MYSCHOLARS. 

confessed, I had resolved upon being a strict disciplinarian. I 
made out a set of rigid rules, for which the punishment for all 
larger offences was plainly declared to be a flogging. 

Several weeks had passed, and my courage and inflexibility 
in wielding the rod had not been tried; far from being troubled 
with disobedience, I had surrounded my tall person with such 
a halo of dignity, that my pupils hardly dared to recite to me; 
by keeping them at such an awful distance, I failed to form an 
acquaintance with them, and of course could not adapt my 
discipline to their diflTerent dispositions. 

A deep and rapid river ran near the school-house. As many 
serious accidents had occurred there, I had forbidden my 
scholars to go into the water, unless under my protection. 

One very warm day, as I was about commencing school, 
two of my best scholars hurriedly entered the room. My 
attention was attracted to Leighton White, the younger of the 
two, by the gushing sound of water in his shoes. Turning 
towards him, I perceived that he was drenched from head to 
foot. 

" Leighton White," said I, sternly, " come up to the plat- 
form." 

He stepped forward, unabashed. 

" Have you been into the river, this morning ?" Leighton 
was an inveterate stammerer ; he replied, 

" I ha-ha-have, sir." 

" Let me explain — let me explain, Mr. Bartlett !" exclaimed 
Frank Wharton, the other late comer. 

" Silence !" thundered L " No interference ; Leighton can 
speak for himself. Did you fall into the river, or did you go 
in on purpose V 

" I went in on pur-pur-purpose." 



MY SCHOLARS. 43 

Frank Wharton now made another unsuccessful effort at 
explanation. I feared to listen, lest from my dislike to inflict 
punishment, I should relent. 

Seizing the rattan and shutting my eyes, I gave the culprit 
several severe blows. 

Tears started to his eyes, — tears, arising, as I thought, from 
wounded pride, rather than physical suffering. 

" Will you apologize for your disobedience ?" said I, with 
my voice exalted to its highest pitch. 

" No, sir," replied Leighton, calmly and coldly ; for once, 
speaking without stammering. 

I raised the rattan, but before it descended, it was snatched 
from my grasp by Frank Wharton. A bright flush was on 
his dark cheek, and his black eyes glowed like fire. 

" Mr. Bartlett, you must and shall hear me !" he exclaimed. 
" I will not see this injustice done to Leighton White. You 
have punished him for saving your sister's life. She fell from 
the rocks by the river, and would have been drowned, if 
Leighton had not rushed into the water, and at the risk of his 
own life, saved hers." 

That moment was the bitterest of my life. As soon as I 
could command my voice, I said, 

" Leighton, can you forgive me V' 

" Fre-fre-freely," replied the noble boy, accepting my prof- 
fered hand with hearty good-will. 

I learned from this sad and mortifying lesson, the necessity 
of understanding perfectly the character of each individual 
scholar, and of weighing testimony with scrupulous care, 
before inflicting punishment. But, that boys need punishment 
of some kind is a truism, that the most ultra advocate for 
moral suasion will not pretend to deny. 



44 MY SCHOLARS. 

I noticed one morning that a sudden intimacy had sprung 
up in a night, between Phil Hart, a sly, deceitful boy, and 
Harry Perkins, a mischievous, good-natured rogue, as free 
from deceitfulness as it is possible for a lover of mischief to be. 

This mushroom friendship foreboded no good to Harry 
Perkins. 

They passed the recess together, and when they re-entered 
the school-room their faces were flushed, as from recent exer- 
cise. The significant looks that the young rogues exchanged, 
on taking their seats, were not lost upon me. About half an 
hour after, a note was handed me, that a messenger had brought 
to the door. 

It was an invitation to take a family dinner with Mr. God- 
dard, a gentleman who resided about two miles from the 
school-house. 

" A manoeuvre for a half holiday," thought I, and laid the 
note aside. 

The school closed at one o'clock. 

" Boys," said I, " there is a menagerie in town ; you will 
have an opportunity to see it this afternoon, for I have re- 
ceived an invitation to dine with Mr. Goddard. Philip Hart 
and Harry Perkins, I shall take you with me to visit my 
friend ; he is very happy to see good boys at his beautiful 
country-seat." 

The selection of these boys for so great a favour, excited 
surprise among the scholars in general. The wo-begone coun- 
tenances of the favoured two, were truly ludicrous. 

" Come, boys," said I, to Phil and Harry, after the school 
was dismissed, " let us take a lunch before we go." 

The rogues lingered over their luncheon as long as possible; 
every mouthful seeming to choke them. 



MYSCHOLARS. 45 

At last, when we were about to start, there was a sudden 
brightening of their rueful faces, as another note was handed in. 

I perceived that it was in the same disguised hand as that 
of the morning, and, suspecting its contents, thrust it into my 
pocket, saying, 

" I cannot stay for anything now ; we shall be too late for 
dinner." 

Starting from the door at a brisk pace, the boys followed 
me with countenances that would have become the hired 
mourners at an ancient funeral, and I am not sure that lachry- 
matories would have been entirely useless. Without turning 
my head, I talked as I went onward, in a lively, familiar man- 
ner, occasionally asking a question, which was answered in a 
dolorous tone. A whispered consultation at length reached 
my ear, from which I inferred that they were going to face 
about and make their escape. 

" Come, boys," said I, stepping behind them, " you are so 
much younger than your master, you may try and see if I can 
keep up with your rapid walking ; hurry on, or we shall be 
too late for dinner." 

We were at length in sight of the house, and actually at the 
gate. 

Harry could endure concealment no longer. " Phil Hart, 
you are a deceitful scamp," he exclaimed; "we ought to con- 
fess all." 

Without seeming to hear it, I stepped forward, entered the 
gate, and, determined that the boys should be punished as ihey 
deserved, took each by the hand and led them towards the 
house. 

" Please, sir, read the note in your pocket," said Phil, trem- 
bling from head to foot. 



46 MY SCHOLARS. 

" Never mind the note," said I, hurrying through the wind- 
ing path that led to the house. 

" But, sir, Harry Perkins wrote that note this morning ; Mr. 
Goddard does not expect you to dinner," said Phil Hart. 

" He wrote it, the note told its own story ; but who planned 
this piece of deception ?" 

No answer was given. 

" Who planned it ?" I repeated in a decided manner, that 
compelled an answer. 

" If you will look at the note in your pocket, you will see 
that Harry Perkins wrote both the notes," replied the mean- 
spirited Phil. 

" And Philip Hart contrived the whole plan," said I, taking 
out the note and reading it. 

It ran as follows : 

" Mr. Goddard regrets that he has sudenly got to go to town 
to-day, and I canot have you come to diner." 

" Harry," said I, " learn to double your consonants, before 
you attempt another piece of deception." 

" Forgive me, Mr. Bartlett," said Harry with true contri- 
tion. " I shall never attempt anything of the kind again." 

" I believe you, Harry ; choose better friends in future ; you 
perceive how an unprincipled boy would lead you into evil, 
and then desert you, or throw all the blame upon your shoul- 
ders. You have my forgiveness, and I trust your sorrowful 
walk has been a sufficient punishment. As for you, Philip, I 
cannot grant you a full pardon, until I see proofs of a radical 
change of character. I consider this as an incipient forgery. 
You did not write — " 

" No, sir, I did not write the notes at all," interrupted Phil. 

" Be silent ! The act was yours. Harry was the too ready 



MYSCHOLARS. ' 47 

instrument. I say, such beginnings would lead to the crime of 
forgery. Beware ! or you will end your career within the 
dark walls of a prison." 

My homily made but little impression upon Philip Hart. 
He had, alas ! gone too far in the crooked paths of deceit, and 
my mournful prophecy was subsequently fulfilled. 

Providentially, my scholars were saved from his evil ex- 
ample, by his removal a few weeks after our walk, to a distant 
part of the country. 

The impression made by this walk, upon the mind of Harry 
Perkins, was deep and lasting. Such modes of punishment I 
found more successful in reforming offenders, than the most 
severe flogging. 

I had one scholar, who never deserved the slightest punish- 
ment. 

Albert Tracy possessed a refined and correct taste, a quick 
perception of the beautiful, and an enthusiastic admiration of 
the noble and good. Religious truth had sunk deep into his 
heart, and its all-pervading influence was manifested in his 
daily life. 

He was an orphan, who had been placed with me at an 
early age by his guardians, with the expectation of remaining 
under my charge until he entered college. 

Albert became the light of my bachelor home, and my old 
heart clung to him as to an only son. He, in return, lavished 
upon me an affection warmer and deeper than most boys 
demonstrate for their parents ; when he was absent from school, 
I not only missed his pleasant face and perfect recitations, but 
felt my comfort materially diminished. No ready hand reheved 
me from my hat and cane, after a weary walk ; no glass of 
water, fresh from the spring, was placed upon my desk ; no 



48 MY SCHOLARS. 

softened voice and gentle tread, expressed sympathy for the 
headache which a troubled expression alone betrayed. 

Our heart-strings responded to the same touch ; the bright 
tear would sparkle in the dark blue eye of Albert, while my 
frame thrilled with emotion. Many a merry laugh too, have 
we enjoyed together ; truly the hours spent in his companion- 
ship, shine out from the memory of the past, like my best 
beloved constellations, the glory of the wintry sky. 

How will he tame down that soaring spirit to the dull, plod- 
ding cares of a profession ! What grief will be his, at the sight 
of wrongs which he cannot redress, and sufferings which he 
cannot mitigate ! 

Such were often my reflections, while his eloquent counte- 
nance told the story of the noble spirit within. 

It was near the close of school term. Themes were to be 
read aloud at the examination. Anxious, I supposed, to have 
his composition entirely his own, Albert did not communicate 
to me the topic he had chosen. Late one evening, he finished 
his neat, final copy, and, weary with the exertion, he retired 
to rest. 

The morning found him upon the bed of sickness. Three 
days of acute suffering, borne with uncomplaining patience, 
brought him to the borders of the grave. 

I watched the countenance of the attending physician, and 
read in its anxious sadness, the doom of my beloved Albert. 

Asa part of my duty, I had given him religious instruction, 
but the idea of preparing him for early death, had never en- 
tered my mind. How would he bear the announcement that 
his life was so near its close ! 

" Albert," said I, endeavouring to command my emotion. 



MY SCHOLARS. 49 

" have you ever thought of the possible termination of your 
illness." 

" In death ?" he calmly inquired. 

I could not answer. 

" Dear Mr, Bartlett, do not grieve for me," he continued. 
" He who strengthens me to endure my sufferings, has taken 
away the bitterness of death. I had hoped to honour you by 
a brilliant career on earth, but, my dear teacher, will not your 
reward be greater if you have prepared my soul for Heaven?" 

Completely unmanned, I could only clasp his thin hand in 
my own, while he murmured, 

" The dear boys ! — Tell them good-by — Keep near me — 
We shall meet again." 

The little hand grew cold in mine, and Albert was no more. 

Some weeks after the death of my beloved pupil, I sum- 
moned resolution to open his little writing-desk. Among his 
neatly-filed papers, there was one loose sheet. It was his last 
composition, and entitled, 

THE ORPHAN-BOY TO HIS TEACHER. 

A FLOWERING plant had drooped and died ; — 

Close clinging to its root, 
The gardener found, still fresh and green, 

A tender little shoot. 

Left unprotected in the sun. 

Its leaves began to fade. 
Which erst so rapidly had grown 

Beneath the parent shade. 
5 



50 MY SCHOLARS. 

When evening came with gentle dews, 

And heat no longer raged. 
Its little roots, with careful hand. 

The gardener disengaged. 

He placed it in a pleasant spot, 

Beneath a noble tree, 
Which, crowned with verdure, stately rose 

In full maturity. 

Its pensile leaves were soon refreshed. 

Its fragile roots grew firm. 
While, folded in the downy bud. 

Revived the languid germ. 

By passing through the foliage dense. 
The sunbeams lost their power ; 

The beating storms, grown gentle, fell 
A sweet refreshing shower. 

Unmeet return ! The grateful plant 

Could only give its love. 
Which floated fragrant through the air, 

And reached the tree above. 

, My faithful teacher, dearest friend, — 
My guide to truth and joy, — 
Thou art that kind and noble tree, — 
The plant — your Orphan Boy. 



DREAMLAND MELODY. 

BY WILLIAM B. HARTWELL. 

*' The poetry of girlhood." What an absurdity ! A man 
of two-and-twenty, write of the poetry of girlhood ! Mine 
are the most anti-poetical, the most homespun reminiscences 
possible ; teasing a quarter of a dozen frolicsome, romping 
school-girls, my sisters ; frightening their playmates out of the 
house by all manner of boyish mischief; seeing those same 
sisters conning over their lessons, and shedding, not pearly 
drops over rosy cheeks, but showers of salt water over peony 
faces ; shy and awkward, when I wished them to be on their 
best behaviour before my college cronies, or pert and pretend- 
ing, when earnestly requested to be quiet and demure. 

Besides ; I could never see that they were of any possible 
use. If I happened to want a button sewed on, they were 
sure to be practising, or gossiping and giggling in a sly cor- 
ner, with some other unfledged school-girl. 

When I found my own fingers too clumsy to execute a 
complicated, fashionable cravat-tie, not in the " Tieana," they 
only made my ears tingle with shrill peals of laughter, at what 
they termed consummate vanity in a man, although they spent 
hours in learning a new stitch in crochet or worsted work. 



52 DREAMLAND MELODY. 

Then, they had such excellent appetites, and were so 
healthy, not affecting the spiritaelle, nor the ethereal, even to 
please my visiters, some of v^^hom were of the Byronian school. 
This, however, I can the more readily pardon, as my sisters, 
happily, were not cognisant of his lordship's peculiarities. 
Thinking of their healthfulness, reminds me of the time when 
illness kept me a prisoner for months at home. How kind, 
how gentle were they, in their sisterly ministrations ! How 
patient, in spite of all my whims and caprices ! How self- 
denying — how forgiving ! Indeed, they had much to forgive. 

And one, — 'who was not my sister, — sweet, guileless Ella 
Wood, — I fear she now remembers me, as I would not wish 
to be remembered, — brothers are seldom seen to much advan- 
tage at home. Yes ; Ella was a beautiful girl. 

A long revery succeeded, which gently led the way to 
Dreamland. 

Sprites — fair and dark, slender and plump, grave and frolic- 
some, classical and homelike — were flitting about the green 
dell. They formed a circle around the elm-tree, at the foot of 
which I had thrown myself, and, in a kind of musical recita- 
tive, to which they kept time with their tiny feet, they uttered 
the following rhapsody : 

I. 

Girlhood ! Free as air, 

Down floats the silken hair ; 

Unfettered still 

As mountain rill. 

The bounding footsteps kiss the grass. 

And shake the dew-drops as they pass. 



DREAMLAND MELODY. 53 

11. 

Fashion, tyrant sprite ! 
Avaunt, with shackles tight ! 
The simple dress 
Of girUshness, 
As little homage owes to thee, 
As lily -bell or forest-bee. 

III. 

Girlhood ! Brightest stage 
Of all our pilgrimage ! 
A sunny hill 
Where linger still 
The birds, who cheered our childhood's hours, 
Now perfect in their vocal powers. 

IV. 

Here, — from maidenhood. 
Sweet pathway to the wood, — 
The briar-rose 
Its perfume throws ; 
Its blushing hues inviting smile. 
And hidden is the thorn, the while. 

V. 

Girlhood ! Nature's prime ! 
Life's naive and frankest time ; 

When hearts are stirred 

By lightest word. 



54 DREAMLAND MELODY. 

And features fair obey the mind. 
As aspen-leaves the summer wind. 

VI. 

Love, hke hght and air, 
Is lavished everywhere ; 
On bird and flower, 
On book and bower, — 
It fills with gladness Learning's dome. 
And makes a Paradise of home. 

VII. 

Girlhood ! Heaven-taught ! 
A cloud with sunbeams wrought ! 
A crystal vase 
For gems of grace ! 
An angel's harp, to mortals given, 
To echo here the songs of Heaven. 



BESSIE NEWTON. 

BY ALICE G. LEE. 

" Light as a bird's were her springing feet ; , 

Her heart as joyous, her song as sweet." 

Amelia Welbv. 

Bessie Newton was not fairy-like; she was too robust to 
deserve that epithet; this was her greatest charm. The 
warm, rich blood mantled, at a word, her sunny face ; perfect 
health gave brilliancy to her dark eyes, and elasticity to her 
footsteps ; so round, so plump was she, that you would have 
known at once the country was her home ; its pure, delicious 
air alone can give that Hebe-like beauty. And this was her 
fourteenth birthday. 

It was a most beautiful morning. The trees were nodding 
to each other, as if rejoicing in the warm sunshine ; their 
fresh green foliage contrasting with the deep blue of the o'er- 
hanging sky, where a few soft clouds floated lazily. A mur- 
mur and a ripple stole through the long grass in the meadows, 
— the robin and the wren poured forth their gladness in song. 
The heart of Bessie Newton was filled with joy, as she looked 
forth upon the beautiful earth ; joy, unmingled with one shade 
of sorrow, for the spell of deep thought was not as yet cast 



56 BESSIE NEWTON. 

over her. It was enough that the sun shone brightly, and the 
earth smiled ; love, ambition, fear, were all sleeping. 

Long may it be, Bessie Newton, ere thy heart awake from 
the brief, bright dream of girlhood, to the fears and disquieting 
aspirations of the thoughtful maiden. Life has but beauty for 
thee now ; existence is a blessing. The fresh breeze of spring, 
bears pleasure from every perfume-laden leaf and flower- 
cup ; the ripple and the dash of the silver streamlet has a care- 
less melody that suits well with thy changeful mood. The 
summer shower is not more transient than thy grief, and the 
rainbow of Hope follows ever the storm. The future ! — it is 
no bitter word for thee ; the past, the present, are unclouded ; 
why dread a darker sky ? But the time will come, gentle 
girl, when the flowers will be but tokens of pleasures past, — 
the song of the rivulet seem as a sad and moaning dirge, and 
the bright tints of Hope will fade, one by one, from the horizon 
of the future. Then, when Nature hath lost its early power 
to soothe — when human love has betrayed its trust, leaving 
thy soul lone and desolate, yearning for companionship and 
solace, — turn from the world that was once so beautiful, and a 
more holy faith shall fill thy heart with a heritance of joy, 
" incorruptible, undefiled, and that fadeth not away." 



THE FROZEN STAR. 

A SNOW-FLAKE left its lofty home, 

In fleecy clouds afar, 
And gently dropped upon the ground, 

A perfect little star. 

Its tiny points grew thin at first. 

Then melted quite away, 
And soon a sullied, shapeless thing, 

The hapless snow-flake lay. 

The soul is like that starry flake, 
A thing of heavenly birth. 

Its holy beauties fade away, 
Beneath the touch of earth. 

Aria. 



COLLEGE HONOURS. 

BY THE EDITOR. 

" Hasten to the goal of fame between the posts of duty, 
And win a blessing from the world, that men may love thy name ; 
yea, that the unction of its praise in fragrance well-deserving, 
May float adown the stream of time, like ambergris at sea." 

Proverbial Philosophy. 

" Come, Reginald, do put down that old book a moment ; I 
want you to climb the tree, and gather some magnolias for 
the drawing-room vases. Here is Annie with her little basket, 
to hold them." 

" Do not disturb me, Laura," replied the boy thus addressed, 
who was lying upon the grass under the magnolia tree ; " I am 
learning some passages in Cicero de Senectute, to quote to the 
old gentleman." 

" Snaketuty !" exclaimed the youngest sister ; " Is that old 
book covered with a real snake-skin V 

" How silly !" responded Reginald ; " the book is an ancient 
copy that belonged to our great, great grandfather, of the 
immortal Cicero, on Old Age ; it is bound, as it should be, in 
parchment ; and I wish it had been written upon it. I venerate 
antiquity." 



COLLEGEHONOURS, 59 

At this pedantic and pompous speech, the sisters laughed 
till the tears stood in their bright blue eyes. 

" What in the name of the seven wonders of the world are 
you laughing at ?" demanded the angry boy, starting up and 
throwing the valued book on the ground. 

" At your grandiloquent air, Reginald," replied Laura ; " and 
the idea is so droll, of repeating to your own grandpa what 
you have learned out of a book. Some of the men of old 
times used to commit set speeches to memory, to say to Queen 
Elizabeth. Do you remember her reply to the one who said, 

" Most mighty Queen, 
Welcome to Falkenstein?" 

" Do you rriean to insult me ?" fiercely retorted Reginald. 

" No, brother, indeed I do not ; mamma says grandpa is not 
an old man, and I thought even a Latin quotation on old age, 
would not be very complimentary," replied Laura. 

" I am sorry he is coming here, for it will spoil all our fun," 
said Annie. 

" Mamma says it will add to our pleasure, Annie ; we ought 
to be very glad he is coming." 

" It is very well for you. Miss Laura, to quote what mamma 
says, on all occasions, but I am out of leading strings. My 
grandfather is a learned and great man — the Normans have 
been so from time immemorial, — and I wish to exhibit before 
him some maturity of mind and manliness of character. But a 
girl of thirteen cannot appreciate these things." 

" I think it quite as much to the purpose for me to quote my 
own mother's opinions, as for you to repeat passages from 
Cicero de Senectute, to our grandpa !" 

" It is impossible for you to judge what is proper for a man. 



60 COLLEGEHONOURS. 

who is just about to enter college," said Reginald, picking up 
the venerable book, and casting an admiring; fiance at the 
glossy dress-coat, which ornamented his tall slender person. 

" A man of sixteen !" exclaimed Annie, clapping her hands. 
" A man in his first long coat !" 

" The natural inferiority of your sex, shields you from my 
contempt," said Reginald to Annie ; and, turning to Laura, 
with, *' Au revoir, Miss Mamnia-says," he walked off, with 
what was intended for a very dignified manner. 

Annie whispered to her sister, as he disappeared among the 
thick shrubbery, " Does he not walk exactly like one of our 
young turkeys ?" 

" Hark !" replied Laura, " I hear a carriage coming up the 
avenue ; it must be grandpa. Let us run and tell mamma." 

The sisters started off" at full speed, and soon reached the 
mansion of Oak side. 

It was the first time that either Mrs. Norman or her chil- 
dren had ever seen the expected guest. She hastened with 
them to the porch to receive him. As he alighted from the 
carriage, Reginald placed himself beside his mother, as her 
protector, the little girls stood trembling on the other side. It 
was evident that the arrival of Judge Norman was dreaded, 
even more than it was desired. 

His greeting was cordial and affectionate. Mrs. Norman's 
heart was throbbing with intense emotion, although there was 
nothing in her manner that indicated the slightest agitation. 

The erect person and firm step of Judge Norman, demon- 
strated the decision of character for which he had been dis- 
tinguished from boyhood. The lines of thought which had 
delicately traced themselves about the tightly-closed mouth 
and high forehead, gave intensity of expression to his counte- 



COLLEGEHONOURS. 61 

nance without marring it. Although his hair was thinned 
about the temples, its blackness was only softened by a few 
silvery tokens of approaching age. His dark eye was still 
undimmed, although it had occasionally that look of introver- 
sion, so frequently seen in men of thoughtful habits. But as 
every human face is said to be " either a prophecy or a his- 
tory," the least accurate physiognomist might have read in 
Judge Norman's, that, although a successful man of the world, 
he had felt the pangs of disappointment, and been compelled 
to drink of the waters of affliction. 

In the evening, as the family were assembled in the parlour, 
Judge Norman sat with his eyes intently fixed upon his grand- 
son, who was reading his favourite Cicero, but not on Old Age, 
— the appearance of his grandfather had dispelled his quota- 
tions. Mrs. Norman was busily plying the knitting-needle, 
and the sisters were amusing themselves with a set of histori- 
cal cards. 

After a long silence. Judge Norman abruptly addressed 
Reginald : " So, then, you are going to college, boy. What 
good will a liberal education do you, here, in the retirement of 
the country V 

Reginald threw one glance from his dark eyes towards his 
sisters as the word boi/ grated upon his ear, and then replied 
in the most manly tone. 

" There is much attractiveness in an author's fame, and 
genius is idolized by all. You know what Willis says : 

" ' Press on ! 
For it shall make you mighty among men, 
And, from the eyrie of your eagle thought. 
Ye shall look down on monarchs. press on ! 
For the high ones and powerful shall come 
6 



62 COLLEGE HONOURS. 

To do you reverence, and the beautiful 
Will know the purer language of your brow, 
And read it like a talisman of love.' " 

" A boyish fancy," muttered the judge, " but beautiful." 

" MiHtary glory has its charms, too. A victorious general, 
crowned with well-earned laurels, is as much to be envied as 
the poet with his bays. Cicero says — " 

Annie interrupted Reginald ; — laying her dimpled hand upon 
his shoulder, and looking earnestly in his face, she said, " Do 
be a soldier, brother ; that would be beautiful !" 

" A soldier, Annie ! you forget the bullets. How can you 
wish your brother to be a soldier ?" inquired Mrs. Norman. 

" I should like, myself, to have been Bonaparte." 

" You, little Annie ! You would like to have been Bona- 
parte !" 

," Yes, indeed, I should, mamma ; it would be so nice to 
have one's likeness everywhere, and to be so admired. The 
last time I was in town, I saw Bonaparte everywhere. There 
he stood in the shop-windows, with his arms folded, you know; 
dear little men, of marble, bronze, plaster, china, and green 
glass, all of them with the sweet little cocked-hat, the epau- 
lettes, and funny boots. Grandpa, do you not think Bonaparte 
was a pretty man." 

" Do you call the dark thunder-cloud, sending forth its 
forked lightning, a pretty cloud ?" 

" Oh, no, it is awful." 

" So was Bonaparte, my dear little girl. Reginald, of all 
ambition, military ambition is the most baseless, the most de- 
lusive, and the most uncertain ; unless the posthumous glory 
of a green-glass statue has attractions for you. The cocked- 
hat, epaulettes, and gold lace, have doubtless been the attrac- 



COLLEGEHONOURS. 63 

tions to many young soldiers who fell in the first battle. They 
have as much value in my estimation as any other part of 
military glory." 

" But ambition is a noble passion," retorted Reginald, his 
large dark eyes " in a fine frenzy rolling." He continued : " I 
am determined to be distinguished in some way ; as a states- 
man, if it is your wish, sir." 

The grandfather took a large seal-ring from his own slender 
finger, and, placing it upon one of Reginald's, said : 

" Let that be the memento of your noble resolution." 

" Yes, my son," remarked Mrs. Norman, in a gentle but 
decided manner, " it is a noble resolution, if you ' noble ends 
by noble means attain.' " 

" You would like to have been Lord Bacon, perhaps." 

" Indeed I should, mother : I would toil and labour inces- 
santly to gain such distinction. I call that a noble ambition." 

The usually pale face of Mrs. Norman was suffused with a 
bright colour, and her knitting-needle moved rapidly, as she 
said, 

" The ambition of Bacon was not a noble one, neither were 
the means to attain it noble. The goal was the seal of the 
High Chancellor. It glittered high above his reach, like a 
bright, particular star. How was he to pluck it from the 
sky 1 The ladder that reached his heaven, was not filled with 
angels ; its rounds might break beneath his feet. He crept 
stealthily up, kicking down every obstacle in his way." 

" Oh, mother, you are severe upon my Lord Verulam," 
exclaimed Reginald, laughing. 

" Not enough so," replied Mrs. Norman ; " I have no words 
strong enough to express my contempt for Bacon. He 



64 COLLEGE HONOURS. 

cringed, and bowed, and sued to all in power, with the most 
servile sycophancy ; his adulation to royalty amounted to 
positive blasphemy. Read his letters to the imperious Eliza- 
beth, stuffed with fulsome flattery, and to James I., with imita- 
tive pedantry." 

" But please, mother, allow that he was the wisest of man- 
kind," urged Reginald. 

" His wisdom was that of the intellect alone," replied the 
mother. " His mean duplicity and monstrous ingratitude to- 
wards his generous friend and patron, the gallant Essex, prove 
the degradation of his moral nature. His whole career de- 
monstrated an entire destitution of that wisdom from above, 
which is pure, peaceable, full of mercy and good fruits, with- 
out partiality and without hypocrisy." 

" And did he get to be Lord Chancellor?" inquired Laura. 

" He did ; by concentrating all the power of a mighty in- 
tellect upon that one object ; and the use that he made of his 
office, was such as might have been expected from the manner 
in which he obtained it. Do you think, Reginald, that his life 
was a happy one ?" 

" It was a glorious one," was the reply. 

"And his fall, was that glorious ? Happier had it been for 
him and for the world, had Bacon, in some quiet village, culti- 
vated himself the philosophy, and practised the wisdom that 
he so ably taught to others." 



n. 



Two years and more had elapsed since the grandfather^s 
visit to Oakside. Reginald was in his junior year at college. 



COLLEGE HONOURS. 65 

" I pity the poor plodding dunces whose books are glued to 
their hands from morning to night, and night to morning," said 
Reginald to his chum. " I am determined to taste Hyblean 
sweets, as well as Pierian waters." 

" But do you not fear that Paul Winsor will gain the first 
appointment ?" 

" Not in the least ; I would shoot myself if such a working- 
man could distance me in the race. Not that I care for a 
college honour ; but I will not play second fiddle any where." 

" You have many competitors." 

" The many fail, the one succeeds," proudly responded Regi- 
nald Norman. 

" Your success in society exceeds your popularity in the 
class ; half the young ladies in town are in love with you," 
continued Mason Morton, — a contemptible variety of the 
species toady. 

"A random shot occasionally rings upon my invulnerable 
armour," responded Reginald, giving a glance at his very 
handsome head, in the small looking-glass that stood upon his 
study table, and running his taper fingers through the dark 
chestnut curls. 

Equally desirous to maintain the reputation of " a capital 
fellow," among his classmates, he mingled with them as boon 
companion, his sparkling wit giving zest to their gay circles. 

" He never studies ! What uncommon genius Norman has, 
to give such recitations ;" was often remarked by those class- 
mates. But this apparent neglect of study was a mere strata- 
gem. The flickering lamp often blended its expiring light 
with the first rays of morning, while Reginald's slender person 
was still bending over a Greek classic, or a mathematical 

6* 



66 COLLEGEHONOURS. 

problem. Night after night, was thus devoted to intense appli- 
cation, after days of idleness. 

The examination of the class was over, the junior appoint- 
ments out, and Reginald Norman had received the first honour; 
Paul Winsor the second. 



III. 



It was the close of a day in early spring-time ; the sky had 
that bright clear blue, that contrasts so beautifully with the 
softened brown of the budding trees. 

A young man might have been seen, making rapid headway 
over a turnpike road, through a country whose picturesque 
beauty has not yet been marred by modern improvements. 

His strides were as regular as the strokes of a steam engine, 
and progression was effected without relaxation, or apparent 
fatigue, mile after mile. 

Under the left arm, the young man carried a small port- 
manteau ; the large walking-stick in his right hand, if it did 
not facilitate his progress, gave the same kind of encourage- 
ment to the pedestrian, as the velocipede does to the juvenile 
equestrian, who performs a ride upon that labour-inciting 
machine. 

It was Paul Winsor who thus pursued his journey. The 
fresh hue of youth glowed upon a countenance to which intel- 
lect and resoluteness of purpose gave manliness of expression ; 
and the fearlessness of his clear blue eye was the exponent of 
a quiet conscience. 

This primitive mode of travelling had its pleasures to a 
genuine lover of nature ; the boundless cope of heaven, and the 



COLLEGEHONOURS. 67 

" unchartered" horizon, harmonized with the free, independent 
spirit of the youthful traveller. 

With a quickened pace he mounted a hill, behind which the 
sun had just retired, and stood upon the top, leaning for a 
moment upon his stout walking-stick. The magnificent sunset 
of a mountainous country was before him ; he cast an admir- 
ing glance at the clouds in their regal array of gold and purple, 
then his eye rested upon the valley, and sought there one 
humble, white cottage ; his face was radiant with joy, and his 
lips articulated the thankfulness that glowed in his heart, as he 
saw the smoke gracefully curling upward from its single 
chimney. 

" I have no sweetheart," said the lad, 
" But absent years from one another, 
Great was the longing that I had, 
To see my mother." 

And he stood by the door of the cottage, and with trembling 
hand, lifted the latch. 

" Mother !" 

" My son !" and the arms of his mother were tightly clasped 
around the neck of her only child. 

" And your health, how is it," eagerly inquired Paul Winsor, 
as he seated his widowed parent in the cushioned chair by the 
fireside. She replied that it was better than usual ; but as the 
flush of joy died away, he perceived that her countenance had 
the paleness and sadness that had long been habitual. 

" And are you quite alone, mother V 

" Oh no, Miriam is with me ; the child has gone to gather 
some fresh violets in the wood just by ; she remembered that 
you loved them, though I had forgotten it. I do not believe 



68 COLLEGEHONOURS. 

she will know you, Paul ; five years have made a wonderful 
change — stand up ; you are as tall as your dear father was — 
he lacked but half an inch of six feet." 

While Winsor was standing, Miriam entered with a basket 
of violets in one hand and a sun-bonnet in the other. 

For a moment he looked at "the lovely apparition" in doubt. 
The doubt was mutual. 

" Miriam, is it possible !" questioned the young student, 

" Mr. Winsor ! Your violets," said she, placing the basket 
in his hands. 

" You do not seem glad to see Miriam, my son ; she has 
been as kind to me as an own daughter," said the mother, half 
reproachfully. 

Paul reseated himself by his mother's side, and with his eyes 
still fixed upon the other inmate of the cottage, took a violet 
from the basket, and inhaling the perfume, said in an embar- 
rassed, half-awkward manner, " This flower is redolent of 
home." 

Miriam went to put away her bonnet, and perhaps to ar- 
range the natural curls that had been blown about her face by 
the wind. 

For five years, Paul Winsor had supported his widowed 
mother by his own exertions, and at the same time pursued 
his studies. This he did, by keeping school during the vaca- 
tions, and three months beside, every year. During this time, 
he found literary employment that was lucrative, and yet with 
all this accumulation of labour, he had retained cheerfulness 
and health. 

Miriam Merwin was the orphan daughter of a deceased 
clergyman ; her small patrimony was yet sufficient to have 
afforded her a better abode than the humble one she preferred. 



COLLEGE HONOURS. 69 

because she could there bestow care and affectionate kindness 
upon one whom she loved. 

" And Dinah, how is she ?" inquired Paul. 

" Come to speak for herself," replied an old coloured woman, 
hobbling into the room ; " a poor sinner, scrabbling through 
the world ; rheumatiz in one leg, and old age all over." 

Paul grasped the hard black hand of the old servant. Was 
she hurt? The tears certainly sparkled down her dark cheeks, 
as he said, warmly, " God bless you, Dinah, for your faithful- 
ness to my mother." 

As she spread the snow-white table-cloth, he remarked, 
" You are able to work still." 

" Not much," she replied ; " our Miriam keeps everything 
in prime order. My gracious ! what a great strapping fellow 
you are, Paul ; if you had stayed away a year or two longer, 
your own mother would not have known you from Adam." 

As Miriam entered the room, Dinah whispered most audibly 
in her ear, " Shall I put on our best cups and saucers '(" 

" Don't treat me like a stranger, Dinah," said Paul. 

*' That is just as Miriam says ; she always tells me what to 
do when the young gentlemen come." 

" So, then, Dinah, you have gentlemen visiters sometimes ?" 

" Ask Miriam," said Dinah, with a familiar wink at the 
blushing girl. 

"I think your tea-kettle boils, Dinah," said she, and the old, 
petted servant left the room. 

Long after Miriam had retired that night, the mother and 
son sat by the bright coals of a wood fire, and talked over the 
past with saddened, yet grateful hearts. He was second in 
college, notwithstanding all the extra labours he had per- 



70 COLLEGE HONOURS. 

formed ; and the coming year would be able to devote himself 
more closely to his collegiate course. 

" Thank God, my son, that you have been enabled to do all 
this from a sense of duty, — that no vain-glorious ambition has 
prompted your endeavours. It is late ; let me join you in 
prayer." 

The mother and son knelt before God ; and the earnest 
breathings of a soul in communion with its Maker, were 
uttered by the young student. 

A few weeks were passed in quiet enjoyment at the cottage, 
— not so very quiet either, for anxieties, doubts, and fears, 
haunted the humble apartments. Are they not often the tor- 
mentors of a first love ? Theirs was the first love of two 
hearts unsullied by the world, and the whole train of tormen- 
tors were soon expelled. The faith of Paul and Miriam was 
plighted, with the blessing of their best earthly friend upon 
their betrothal. 

Winsor returned to college with a stronger incentive to 
exertion than ever. 



IV. 



Reginald Norman was paying a visit to his grandfather in 
the city. 

Judge Norman had too much pride of character to consider 
wealth as adding to his importance. He owed his elevation 
to birth and talents ; he despised, abhorred the purse-proud, 
yet he liked the means and appliances that wealth procures, 
and had surrounded himself with all that could gratify the 
most exquisite taste. Great was his joy and exultation on 



^-- 



COLLEGEHONOURS. 71 

learning that Reginald had received the first honour of the 
class. Directly he sent for him to pay him a visit. 

At a dinner-party, the day after his arrival, Reginald v^as 
presented to a circle of his grandfather's friends. His self- 
esteem carried him safely through the ordeal to which he was 
subjected. The magnates more than forgave the boldness of 
the lad, and prophesied the same success in life as had hitherto 
distinguished his collegiate course. 

A few weeks had passed away in the city, and Reginald's 
visit was near its close ; he sat in the splendid library of his 
grandfather, writing a letter. 

" You are writing to Mrs. Norman ?" 

" I am, sir." 

" No doubt she taught you to consider me a harsh, tyi'anni- 
cal old fellow ?" 

" Never, sir ; she taught me to respect my grandfather." 

" That is strange." 

Reginald was sorely puzzled. 

" Has she never told you that I disowned your father, for 
marrying contrary to my advice ?" 

" How can you suspect her of such a falsehood ?" 

" It is the truth. He thwarted my plans by marrying a 
rich heiress, and I never forgave him. He had a glorious 
mind — talents that would have carried him to the highest 
place our country has to offer, but he lost his ambition, or 
rather it was merged in a stronger passion. I never saw him 
after his marriage. Reginald, you are now the sole repre- 
sentative of the Norman family ; you possess hereditary talent, 
and will, I trust, add new lustre to the name. Hitherto, you 
have been successful in college ; if you win the first honour of 
the Senior Class, I will give you twenty thousand dollars, to 



72 COLLEGEHONOURS. 

enable you to travel for two years in company with a tutor. 

I wish you to study mankind, that you may be prepared for 

the rough encounter of political strife." 

" Thank you, sir ; it shall be as you wish." 

" The prize is not yet won — the goal is still distant." 

" The many strive, the one succeeds," said Reginald, in his 

usual proud tone. 

" I have left you in my will, this library, and nothing more ; 

the remainder of my fortune I have bequeathed to a distant 

relative. You have too much wealth already." 

Reginald Norman needed no stronger stimulus to exertion 

than the burning ambition in his own bosom. 



V. 



On his return to college, Norman still craved all the honours 
of a carpet-knight. His taste — in music, in oratory, in dress, 
— was the standard in college and out. To be the leader of 
ton in college, or elsewhere, requires time, thought, and the 
sacrifice of higher and better things. Many an hour was 
spent by Reginald in consultation with the artists who ar- 
rayed his handsome person, which he had to retrieve before the 
midnight lamp. 

The year passed on ; the time had arrived for the college 
appointments. The students were allowed to vote for the 
appointees. Eager canvassing went on ; party spirit ran 
high ; the two candidates for the valedictory, the highest 
honour, Norman and Winsor, were so nearly equal, that it 
was impossible to conjecture who would receive the largest 
number of votes. 



COLLEGE HONOURS. 73 

A cluster of eager talkers had gathered under one of the 
large elms on the college grounds. 

" I say, I shall vote for Norman ; he is the man, or rather 
the gentleman, for me," said Mason Morton, casting a com- 
placent glance at the gay vest which he thought himself happy 
to have purchased, like one which Norman had worn, — to be 
laid aside, since it had thus lost caste. 

" Why do you vote for Norman ?" 

"Because he will make an elegant, fashionable appearance," 
replied Mason. 

" I thought, ' no man was a hero to his valet de chambre.'' " 

" Is that intended for an insult, Tompkins ?" demanded 
Mason, setting his arms akimbo, so as to display the full glory 
of the new vest. 

" I merely quoted a proverb ; if you find the coat fits, you 
can put it on," replied Tompkins, fixing his eyes upon the 
splendid vest. 

" You belong to the democracy," retorted Mason, con- 
temptuously, " I am of the aristocracy." 

" A true democracy rules our college, for we all have equal 
rights ; but here, as elsewhere, there is an aristocracy of 
talent, which cannot be put down by the mob !" 

" Do you mean to say, Tompkins, that Norman has not as 
much talent as plodding Winsor ?" demanded another of the 
Norman partisans. 

*' He may have more wildfire-genius than Paul Winsor, but 
he does not deserve the valedictory for that. Winsor is a 
strong man, a splendid mathematician, a capital linguist, and 
an elegant writer." 

" But as awkward a speaker as if he had swung a flail all 
the days of his life." 

7 



74 COLLEGE HONOURS. 

" No doubt he has," responded Mason Morton. 

" Nobody mmds your opinions, Mason ; you can adopt 
them as easily as you do other cast-ofFs," rephed Tompkins. 

" I am as independent in my opinions as in my dress," 
angrily replied the toady. 

" Precisely," said Tompkins, with a sneer. 

Other students now joined the caucus under the tree, and 
words had nearly come to blows, when a dispersion was 
effected by the ringing of the prayer-bell. 

The votes of the class had all been given in, and intense 
anxiety filled each beating heart. Never, in after life, when 
more momentous results are at stake, can deeper interest be 
felt, — never can an honour be more eagerly sought than this, 
the first goal of ambition, when the ardour, the fiery impetuo- 
sity of youth, has not been quelled by disappointment. 

The appointments were to be made known at midnight. 
The mysterious roll was to be thrust out of the tutor's door. 

It was seized by an eager hand, and read aloud to a mob of 
open-mouthed listeners. 

The votes of the class stood — for Reginald Norman, fifty- 
two ; for Paul Winsor, forty-nine. The old walls of the col- 
lege rang with three cheers from Norman's partisans. 

As soon as the noise subsided, the reader went on to an- 
nounce the appointments by the Faculty. Paul Winsor, the 
first appointment, the valedictory ; Reginald Norman, an 
English oration. 

The startled sleepers in the town were awakened, as the 
thunders of three times three arose from the stout partisans 
of Paul Winsor. 

One stern principle had actuated Winsor, — a simple, effec- 
tive principle. It has not the high-sounding name of ambition 



COLLEGE HONOURS. 75 

— no halo of earthly glory surrounds it — homely it may seem, 
for it is applicable to all times and circumstances, — yet it 
gives unity of purpose, and dignity to every action — Duty. 
Duty to God and man. Ambition implies self-aggrandize- 
ment ; Duty, self-renunciation. Ambition, having a worldly 
object to attain, when that is reached, " Alps on Alps arise ;" 
Duty " is new every morning, and fresh every evening ;" its 
motto is — 

" Act in the living present — 
Heart within and God o'er head." 



VI. 



When Mason announced the unexpected result of the ap- 
pointments to Norman, the anger of the amazed student was 
fearful. He raged like a young tiger ; wild threats of revenge 
upon his rival were muttered between his closed teeth. 

" But look here, Norman," said Mason ; " you still can 
prove to the audience at Commencement, that you richly de- 
served the first honour. You know you can write a better 
oration than Paul Winsor, and your eloquence, your splendid 
elocution, must of course win a fashionable assembly." 

Partially quieted by this suggestion, hope revived in the 
bosom of the disappointed Reginald. He had lost the twenty 
thousand and the tour of Europe, but he would show the 
world that he was an injured man. 

His conscience might have told him that his gaiety had be- 
come dissipation, and a decline in his standing in the class had 
been the consequence. 

To retain popularity among his partisans, and to deaden the 



76 COLLEGE HONOURS. 

pangs of disappointed ambition, Reginald drank still more 
deeply of the intoxicating cup of pleasure. 

A fortnight before the Commencement, he was seized with 
brain fever. For a whole week, his recovery was doubtful. 
His ravings were horrible. Cursings and imprecations were, 
in his delirium, showered upon his rival. And there was Paul 
Winsor to hear them, watching by the bedside of the invalid, 
and ministering to his wants with the gentleness of a sister. 

A week had thus passed, without one hour of quietness, 
when the exhausted Norman at length fell asleep. This sleep 
might terminate in death, or be the crisis of the disorder. 

Paul watched him alone that night with breathless anxiety. 
Towards morning, he awoke, calm and rational, but too feeble 
to speak ; he motioned for water, and Paul placed the cooling 
draught to his lips. Not a word was spoken. All the suc- 
ceeding day, Winsor continued with him, and yet he made no 
effort to speak. As Winsor was about to leave him, at even- 
ing prayer-time, he carefully gave the directions of the phy- 
sician to a nurse who had been procured. 

Norman extended his emaciated hand. " Winsor," said he, 
" how kind you are ! None but a Christian could have done 
as you have. I shall not recover ; forgive and pray for me. 
And, Winsor," continued he, slipping a large seal-ring from 
his thin finger, " send this to my grandfather, and tell him that 
the honours of this world will not prepare a soul for Heaven." 



VII. 



The day of the Commencement had arrived. Reginald 
Norman was still a prisoner to disease, although his life was 
no longer in danger. 



COLLEGE HONOURS. 77 

A gentle tap was heard at the door, and a quick but faint 
" come in" followed. 

The door opened, and Paul Winsor entered in his every-day 
garb. 

" Good morning, Reginald ; the doctor says you may take 
ices, and I have brought you one." 

" Does he ! How refreshing !" said Reginald, eagerly tast- 
ing the iced sherbet that Paul placed before him. After taking 
nearly all of it, he left off abruptly, saying, " I fancied that it 
was Commencement to-day ; but you are not in holiday-trim, 
Paul." 

Winsor did not reply. 

" Yes, it is the day — I know it," continued Reginald. " I 
have one great favour to ask ; — will you grant it ?" 

" What is it ?" 

" Will you read my oration on the stage. I know the 
Faculty will give you permission." 

" Not I ! You know I have none of the graces of oratory, 
and I should not do it justice." 

" There it is, in my portfolio. I must insist upon this, 
although I know it is a weakness." 

Paul handed the invalid the oration. It was written on the 
most delicate note-paper, and tied with a blue riband. " The 
Genius that brooks no Obstacles," was the title. 

Reginald looked it over a moment, and, dashing a tear from 
his eye, handed it to Paul, saying, " God interposes obstacles, 
when he sees that it is for our good." 

Paul could not refuse a request thus urged. 

In a brief but touching manner, he alluded to the illness of 
his friend, before reading the finished and elegant oration, to 
the large and brilliant assembly of the College Commencement. 



78 COLLEGEHONOURS. 

It seemed as if by some magical Mesmerism, the spirit of 
Reginald Norman had been transfused into Paul Winsor, for 
never before had he been so eloquent ; even his manner be- 
came graceful, v^^hile he read the flow^ing periods of his talented 
rival. 

The various " exercises" of the day v^^ere all over, except- 
ing the last; and the stir, the general excitement, demonstrated 
the interest of the audience in the valedictorian. Winsor as- 
cended the platform v^ith much less ease than he had done in 
the morning, but as he went on, his awkwardness gave place 
to confidence, and he pronounced an eloquent oration, on 
" Man's Responsibility to his Country and to God." 

As he turned to the class to address them, he remembered 
that the majority of their votes had been given to another, and 
yielding to a spontaneous impulse, he pronounced a glowing 
eulogium upon the genius of their chosen orator, and then 
gave the valedictory address. 

Not a single member of the class walked out of the gallery 
that day, without acknowledging that Winsor was the " noblest 
Roman of them all." 

There was another, a stranger, who stood ready to greet 
him, as he passed out of the door of the church, after the 
degrees had been conferred. It was Judge Norman. He 
took Winsor by the arm, and walked with him across the 
public square to the rooms of his convalescent grandson. 

He had received the news of Reginald's illness, and had 
arrived in town that morning. After explaining this to Win- 
sor, he continued, 

" Nothing could have atoned to me for Reginald's loss of 
the first honour, but finding you so worthy of it. Will you go 
with him as his tutor, and travel with him for two years ?" 



COLLEGE HONOURS. 79 

Paul was silent for a moment with sui'prise, and then re- 
plied, " I am but a year or two older than Reginald, and, in 
many things, he is my superior." 

" You have stability and force of character ; you have won 
his affections, and can control him by your example. His 
health requires the journey — will you go with him ?" 

Paul hesitated. " I must consult my mother." 

" Your salary shall be paid in advance." 

" Thank you, sir ; yet I must consult my friends." 

" Well, let us hasten to the poor sick boy. He insisted that 
I should leave him, to hear your oration ; and that has con- 
firmed the good opinion which Reginald was all day striving 
to give me of yourself." 

" Then it is his own request ?" 

" To be sure it is ; and I am now as anxious as he is, that 
you should be his travelling companion, if you will not call 
yourself his tutor." 

Paul Winsor's impatience to reach home, would not, at this 
time, brook the delay of a pedestrian excursion. 

There were affectionate greetings, followed by wonderings 
and debatings, on his arrival at the cottage. 

"And why should you leave us, to see foreign lands?" asked 
the mother. 

And the question was repeated, not in words, but by the 
tearful eyes of the betrothed Miriam. 

" I think it is a duty that I owe my friend. Besides, I may 
gain that wisdom by observation, which will enable me more 
successfully to discharge the office of a Christian minister, and, 
at the same time, I shall have ample means for your support, 
my dear mother." 

" And how soon must you leave us ?" 



80 COLLEGE HONOURS. 

" In a month from this time." 

" Well, my son, God bless and reward you for all that you 
have done for your widowed mother. I consent ; what do 
you say, Miriam ?" 

The blushing girl whispered in her ear, " I will stay with 
you, and prepare myself for the duties of the wife of a Chris- 
tian minister." 



THE INSANE GIRL, 

BY FANNIE OF FARLEIGH. 
I. 

With reason unblest, 
In weary unrest, 

She drags out her day ; 
None thinketh much of her, 
And from the touch of her, 

All shrink away. 

II. 

Kindred humanities, 
With their profanities. 

Circle her round ; 
Frenzied, she standeth there, 
Shrieking, in mad despair. 

Howling ; chain-bound. 

III. 

Grim faces haunting her. 
Rude voices taunting her. 



82 THE INSANE GIRL. 

Ever she hears ; 
E'en when the shadow thrown 
On the wall is her own, 

Stranarelv she fears. 



IV. 



When the night hours come, 
How do they throng her room ; 

Those shapes of dread. 
Gliding fantastic there 
In her cell— everywhere — 

Over her head. 

V. 

Gibing and jeering her — 
Mocking and leering her. 

With demon eyes ; 
While as appalled with dread, 
Chained to that iron bed, 

Helpless she lies. 

VI. 

IMadly she shrieks again ! — 
IMadly she clanks her chain ! — 

Oh ! should this be 1 
Let loose the fetters there ; 
Think ye her brain can bear 

More misery ! 



THE INSANE GIRL. §3 



VII. 



Deem ye her heart is steel ? 
Or that she cannot feel 

Kind words and true ? 
Tho' her soul's voice be dumb, 
One day it may become 

Witness 'gainst you. 

VIII. 

Hear ye that wretched moan ? 
Ah ! leave her not alone 

In the dread dark. 
Tho' an extinguished flame, 
Love may relight again 

Reason's dull spark. 

IX. 

Give her more room and air ! 
Let her hear words of prayer. 

Take off her chain ; 
Bring flowers to her bed. 
Prop up her weary head, 

Poor girl — insane ! 

X. 

Let music unawares. 
When her eye wildly glares. 



84 THE INSANE GIRL. 

Soothe and delight ; 
Calming her wildered brain, 
LuUing, Uke drops of rain 

FalUng at night. 

XL 

If she has fancies strange, 
Seek not by force to change 

Her mood of mind ; 
Lead her ail-gently back, — 
She hath but missed the track. 

Her eyes are blind. 

XII. 

Tell her that God above 
Gives her the boon of love, 

As to us all. 
That if a sparrovi^ dies, 
Noteth His v^atchful eyes, 

Even its fall. 

XIII. 

Tell her that angels keep 
Bright watch o'er her sleep. 

In the dark hours ; 
Whisper, a fairy dwells 
In the cups and the bells 

Of the fresh flowers. 



THE INSANE GIRL. 85 

XIV. 

Thus star her world of night, 
People, with spirits bright, 

Nature to her ; 
So shall ye drive away 
Imp and dark fiend for aye ! 

So shall ye stir, 

XV. 

Memory of things past. 
Till the right chord at last 

Vibrates again, 
Till the links fitting tight, 
Once more reunite 

In her life's chain. 



THE WHITE HAND. 

My dear little lady, that very white hand, 
Which fondly you cherish, with sorrow I scann'd ; 
I knew by its fairness, and baby-like skin, 
A stranger to labour it ever had been. 
It sweeps o'er the harp with a magical sway. 
And nimbly can move in bewitching crochet ; 
Employments like these, tho' they give you delight, 
Are poor preparations for Poverty's night. 
Could you hem a cravat, or gather a skirt. 
Or stitch round a collar, or cut out a shirt ? — 
Have you yet attempted to handle a broom, 
To wash up the tea-cups, or dust out a room ; 
To stir up a pudding, or roll out a pie, 
To season a sauce, or marketing buy ? — 
Though these occupations for you are quite new, 
For delicate hands there is something to do ; 
The brow of the suff'rer they softly can bathe. 
The limb of the wounded they gently can swathe ; 
The child and the aged can tenderly lead, 
And give the relief that the indigent need ; 
The tears they can wipe of affliction and care. 
And fervently clasped, be uplifted in prayer. 




^ P Y£ W [K1(D) O 



THE WIDOWER'S DAUGHTER. 

BY MKS. L. C. TUTHILL. 

" Maiden ! with the meek brown eyes, 
In whose orbs a shadow lies, 
Like the dusk in evening skies! 
Standing, with reluctant feet, 
Where the brook and river meet ! 
Womanhood and childhood fleet ! 
Gazing, with a timid glance, 
^ On the brooklet's swift advance, i 

On the river's broad expanse !" 

Longfellow. 

It was determined that Ruth Eaton should be neither ro- 
mantic nor sentimental. 

Not a stray fairy was allowed to peep into a sly corner of 
the nursery at Stanville Hall. The redoubtable " Jack the 
Giant Killer," and the fascinating " Hop-o'-my- Thumb," were 
names forbidden to be syllabled there ; even the classic " Mo- 
ther Goose," was under the ban. Poetry and Imagination ! 
Interlopers in a temple dedicated to utility and common sense ! 

The mother of Ruth Eaton had been considered by her 
high-born and wealthy family, romantic and sentimental ; for 
she had returned the love of a poor clergyman from the 



88 THE WIDOWER'S DAUGHTER. 

United States, and married him, leaving her splendid English 
home, to dwell in a foreign land with the man of her choice. 

Only one bright and blissful year of wedded life was granted 
to this pair, whom truly scriptural bonds had united. Love, 
strong as human heart could feel, on the part of the husband ; 
love and profound reverence on the weaker side. Yet, M'ith a 
fond and natural yearning for her native land, Mrs. Eaton 
requested, in her last moments, that her infant, then only a 
month old, should, when three years of age, be sent to her 
brother in England, to receive an Enghsh education. 

It was tearing open wounds that had not yet healed, when 
the Rev. Mr. Eaton suffered a second bereavement by parting 
with his little Ruth; but the slightest request of his departed 
wife, was sacred to the sorrowing husband. His house was, 
indeed, left to him desolate, when he sent from him his lovely 
little girl, with her faithful nurse. 

Mrs. Collins and Ruth arrived safely in England, and were 
kindly received by the Hon. Mr. and Mrs. Stanville, at Stan- 
ville Hall. They had no children of their own, and were 
charmed with the opportunity thus offered of testing their 
system of education. That system, as has been hmted, was 
the anti-romantic. Beautiful it was hoped Ruth Eaton would 
be, intellectual perhaps, graceful and well-bred of course, and 
if she should happen to become proud, worldly, cunning, why, 
how could they help it ? They need not try, for such things 
would happen in families of distinction. 

The care and culture of the child, — physical, mental, and 
moral, — were left entirely to her nurse, Mrs. Collins, until she 
had attained her seventh year, with the strict prohibitions that 
have been mentioned. Nurse Collins had two standards of 



THE WIDOWER'S DAUGHTER. 89 

opinion and action ; the first, as expressed in her own words, 
was, "the Bible says so;" the second, "they do so in Boston." 

There was one person at Stanville Hall to whom Mrs. 
Collins could dilate, to her heart's content, on her own beloved 
country ; that person was her little Ruth. To a woman of 
her education, — the common-school education of New Eng- 
land, — the society and conversation of the servants at Stan- 
ville Hall seemed low and disgusting ; and, as she had not the 
gift of silence, she talked all the more to her bright little 
charge. 

Ruth never tired of the stories which nurse related. No 
knight-errant of chivalry ever dazzled the youthful imagina- 
tion and won the youthful heart, as did the hero whom Mrs. 
Collins portrayed to the imagination and heart of Ruth Eaton, 
— that hero, — sans peur et sans reproche, — was Washington. 

The story of St. George and the Dragon was never told to 
juvenile listener with more thrilling eloquence, than the nurse 
imparted to the adventure of General Putnam and the wolf. 
Moreover, the memory of the nurse was so well stored with 
the legends of her native land, that she could relate as many 
stories as the immortal Schezerade. 

Ruth was nearly seven years of age when she was trans- 
ferred from the affectionate, earnest teaching of the good 
nurse, to a reverend tutor, as awkward and as learned as 
Dominie Sampson, but less kind and gentle than that simple- 
hearted individual. His harshness and severity had, in fact, 
recommended him to Mr. Stanville, and given him the com- 
fortable home and salary that he now enjoyed. He was per- 
fectly willing to carry out, to the full extent, the favourite sys- 
tem which had been devised by the worldly wisdom of his 
honourable employers. 



00 THE WIDOWER'S DAUGHTER. 

There was no tendency to sentiment in the Rev. Martin 
Bradstreet : 

" A primrose on the river's brim, 
A yellow primrose was to him, 
And it was nothing more." 



The mind of Ruth Eaton had expanded freely and naturally, 
and, of course, healthfully ; besides, it was a well-organized 
mind. In a school, or even with partial parents, she might 
have been called talented, or a genius ; happily, she never 
heard anything of the kind suggested. 

Ruth learned her lessons thoroughly, and recited them with 
promptness. Mr. Bradstreet went through with them mecha- 
nically, and never, in the course of seven whole years, did he 
utter a word to his pupil on any other topic than that which 
was contained in the daily lessons. He served the purpose of 
bringing out the knowledge she acquired, in the same manner 
as the black-board ; indeed, as he always sat precisely in the 
same spot in the library, and wore the same sombre suit, he 
seemed to Ruth a living black-board. 

At the age of fourteen, she was to pass from under his 
rigid rule, into the polishing hands of a French governess. 
The task of refining and polishing, was to be eflected without 
softening the material. Of course, much care was taken to 
procure a lady who could accomphsh this difficult task. A 
venerable personage oiVancien rtghne was at length obtained, 
— a world-worn veteran, whose maxims would have delighted 
Chesterfield and Rochefoucault. 

The black-board was changed for a garrulous parrot, whose 
opinions were as foreign to Ruth as the language in which 
they were uttered. 



THE WIDOWER'S DAUGHTER. QJ 

At eighteen, Ruth Eaton was considered sufficiently learned 
and accomplished to be emancipated from tasks and stocks, 
tutor and governess, — her education completely finished. 

The sweet companionship of children of her own age had 
been denied her ; nor had she enjoyed the still more charming 
intercourse of girlhood. No parental communion from day to 
day called forth her warm aifections. 

Mr. and Mrs. Stanville were brilliant petrifactions in the 
world of fashion ; that was the universe to them ; and they 
were contented so long as they maintained a conspicuous 
place among their fellow stalactites and stalagmites. 

And Ruth, she knew nothing as yet of that dazzling world, 
for which the chosen system of education was to prepare her. 
She had her small sphere of duty, where she fulfilled all that 
was required of her, and she had her own dear, delightful 
inner world, into which she could retire and reign, undisputed 
sovereign. There, she revelled in the creations of her own 
bright fancy. The flowers, the trees, the clouds, the stars, 
had been her bosom friends and teachers, — 

" Prompters to her dreams of heaven." 

The harshness and coldness of her outer life had not re- 
pressed the God-given sense of the beautiful, the deep, earnest 
longings of her soul, for the true and the good. 

Ruth Eaton was, in the highest and noblest sense of that 
much-abused term, romantic. That is, she revolted from the 
dull earthliness of every-day life, as it was exhibited in the 
family of her uncle, and yearned after a life more spiritual 
and beautiful. She craved a resting-place for love — boundless 
scope for sentiment and imagination — freedom to act nobly — 
sympathy with humanity. 



92 T H E W I D W E R ' S D A U G H T E R. 

Books of poetry had been dcuiccl her, but God's Creation to 
her was written all over, in a richer language than that of 
immortal bards. 

She had grown, like a plant without dew and sunshine, 
which, in some mysterious way, has remained pure and fresh, 
as if nourished by the most genial inlluences of sun and sky. 
The poetry of one book, however, she had richly enjoyed, — 
the inspired poetry of the Bible. Her first tears of sensibility 
had been shed over the story of Joseph ; the first glow of 
enthusiasm in her heart, had been kindled by the disinterested 
love of Jonathan for the successor to his father's throne, — the 
youthful David. 

Among her heroines, were the beautiful Rachel, the valor- 
ous Deborah, and her own sweet namesake, — the affectionate 
Ruth. 

The village church, with its lofty columns, its fretted vault, 
and storied windows, its pealing organ and sacred hymns, its 
solemn rites and sublime liturgy, had excited her imagination 
and moved her heart, and Ruth was a sincere worshipper. 

The Hon. Mr. and Mrs. Stanville had contented themselves 
with forming a system, and leaving others to carry it into 
effect ; they knew nothing as yet of the result. They saw 
that she was graceful as the fawns that bounded through the 
park, that her manners were refined and delicate, and that her 
countenance was beautiful, and they valued and admired her, 
much as they did the pictures that their own taste had selected 
and their own money had purchased ; — they felt pride and 
self-gratulation, without affection. 

But the time had arrived when Ruth was to be presented to 
their world. She was to be brought out first at Stanville Hall, 



I 



THE WIDOWER'S DAUGHTER. 93 

where a large number of their friends were to pass a few 
weeks of the summer ; and the coming winter, in London. 

Confident of the success of their own wise forethought, Mr. 
and Mrs. Stanville had often spoken of their niece, as a well- 
behaved, nice person, — an exceedingly discreet young lady. 

Before the crowd of fashionable visiters who had met at 
Stanville Hall, Ruth was calm and reserved ; they too were 
reserved and distant; there was no congeniality between them. 
They knew not why, but they felt that she was not of them. 

They criticised her person, her air, her voice, her musical 
execution, and pronounced her, comme il faut, yet they whis- 
pered among themselves, that she was " slightly peculiar," — a 
stigma upon a denizen of the fashionable world, where all, to 
pass as coin of the realm, must bear the same stamp and 
superscription. 

After breakfast one morning, Ruth left the gossip of the 
drawing-room, to enjoy a quiet hour by herself. She sought 
one of her favourite haunts, and seated herself upon a rustic 
bench beneath the wide shadow of a venerable oak. 

And there sat the matter-of-fact Miss Eaton, looking like 
the living impersonation of romance ; — her hair loosened from 
the comb, whose task of confining it had been so recently 
begun, that it seemed not yet to have acquired the habit ; her 
head resting on one bended arm, and a book upon the bench, 
over which she was leaning. 

She was startled from this attitude, — the perfect repose of 
which would have charmed a painter, — startled, by the in- 
quiry : 

" Does Miss Eaton prefer reading and solitude, to conversa- 
tion and society ?" 

She looked up, and saw by her side, a tall gentleman, 



94 THE WIDOWER'S DAUGHTER. 

whose lofty forehead, that tell-tale Thiie had labelled with 
unmistakeable lines — tokens of deep thought rather than ad- 
vanced years. 

Ruth replied to the question with perfect simplicity and 
truthfulness, 

" I do, sir." 

" Then I ought to apologize for intruding upon you, and 
leave you to your own enjoyment ; but pardon me if I first 
inquire what new novel robs us of your sweet society ?" 

" I have never read a novel, sir." 

" Never read a novel ! Yes, yes, I remember now the 
favourite anti-romantic system of education that was devised 
by your relatives. Perhaps by this time they allow you to 
read poetry. Is it so ?" 

" This is an ancient book of poetry and history," replied 
Ruth, with a smile. 

"The Iliad?" 

« The Bible." 

" The Bible !" exclaimed the gentleman, with a start of sur- 
prise, quite too perceptible for one who was considered per- 
fectly well-bred. "The Bible! Pardon me. Miss Eaton; are 
you not a little peculiar in your taste V 

" I was not aware of any peculiarity in my taste ; I thought 
everybody read and admired the Bible." 

" Young ladies seldom steal away from the gay and the 
gifted, to read it alone. You are, however, I believe, on one 
side, descended from the Puritans, and may have inherited 
from them this singular taste." 

" I am by birth a native of New England, and I love my 
country. Unfortunately, I left it too early to remember any- 
thing distinctly about it, but, for several years, I have corre- 



THE WIDOWER'S DAUGHTER. 95 

sponded with my father, and my nurse is a Massachusetts 
woman." 

" A real Indian woman ! — A squaw !" 

" Oh, no, sir ! A white woman from Boston, in Massachu- 
setts ; a town of which most Enghshmen have heard. My 
good nurse left her home to come with me to this country ; 
and, as she dearly loves her native land, she has not allowed 
me to forget it. For two of the greatest pleasures of my life, 
I am indebted to her, — an intimate acquaintance with the 
Bible, and a just appreciation of the country of my excellent 
father." 

" You astonish me. Miss Eaton ; your nurse can be no 
common person." 

" Mrs. Collins is a strong-minded, warm-hearted woman ; 
she is as familiar with the history of the United States, as 
Lord Brougham is with the history of Great Britain." 

" And poetry has been entirely prohibited in the course of 
your education ! You know nothing of it excepting from the 
Bible ?" 

" Is there not poetry everywhere ? The waving of a 
branch, or the rustling of a leaf, may fill the mind with poetic 
thought." 

" But books of poetry ?" 

" I have read Pope's Essay on Man, Cowper's Task, the 
Paradise Regained, and a few other poems. Besides, my 
father has occasionally sent me fugitive pieces of poetry, 
written by his fellow-countrymen." 

" American poetry ! That must be verse of a monstrously 
mechanical manufacture. What does it sound like V 

" It sounds like this," said Ruth, her cheeks flushing with 
enthusiasm, and her eyes kindling with the fervour of patriotic 



96 THE WIDOWER'S DAUGHTER. 

feeling, as she repeated Whittier's beautiful lines on New 
England : 

" Land of the forest and the rock — 
Of dark-blue lake and mighty river — 
Of mountains reared aloft to mock 
The storm's career, the lightning's shock — 
My own green land for ever ! 
Land of the beautiful and brave — 
The freeman's home, the martyr's grave — 
The nursery of giant men. 
Whose deeds have linked with every glen, 
And every hill, and every stream. 
The romance of some warrior-dream ! 
O ! never may a son of thine, 
Where'er his wandering steps incline. 
Forget the sky which bent above 
His childhood like a dream of love — 
The stream beneath the green hill flowing — 
The broad-armed trees above it growing — 
The clear breeze through the foliage blowing ; 
Or hear, unmoved, the taunt of scorn 
Breathed o'er the brave New England born." 

" You are a dangerous young rebel, Miss Eaton; you would 
almost make me turn traitor to rny country, and acknowledge 
that there can be English poetry not written by an English- 
man. But there comes your honourable uncle ; no doubt 
seeking for his truant niece." 

Ruth immediately stepped forward to meet him, saying, in 
a quiet, subdued tone, " Did you take the trouble to look after 
me. Uncle Stanville?" 

"Excuse me, Mr. Balmley,*' said he, turning to the tall 
gentleman, " I did not know that you were with Miss Eaton. 
Mrs. Stanville has been wondering why she left the drawing- 
room." 



THE WIDOWER'S DAUGHTER. 97 

" It was so stupid there, I glided out of the house to pass an 
hour or two under my favourite tree, alone." Ruth gave a 
marked emphasis to the last word. 

"Favourite tree!" exclaimed Mr. Stanville. "Young ladies 
should not have favourite trees." 

" How can they help it, sir 1 Trees are not all alike ; some 
are far more picturesque and beautiful than others. Look at 
that noble monarch of /the woods," continued Ruth, turning 
and pointing to the tree under which she had been sitting ; " I 
fancy that the Druids might have worshipped there ; and I 
render it a kind of homage, that is not, I trust, unchristian." 

The amazed Mr. Stanville ! His countenance bore ludicrous 
testimony to his amazement ; but Mr. Balmley, seeming not to 
notice it, said : 

"And you love solitary walks. Miss Eaton, and enjoy poetry 
and sentiment, and, above all, admire New England and the 
Bible ?" 

" A strange category !" replied Ruth, " and yet I like them 
all; they are things which one would never dream of not 
liking. Could one live without loving all beautiful things ?" 

"Ruth Eaton, are you beside yourself? — Absolutely de- 
mented ?" demanded Mr. Stanville, in an angry tone. 

" What have I done V exclaimed the bewildered, uncon- 
scious Ruth. 

" Spoken like a silly, sentimental young girl," was the reply. 

" Forgive me, sir, if I have offended you ; I am young and 
foolish ; time will remedy one fault, and pei'haps it may the 
other." 

Without replying, the offended Mr. Stanville turned away, 
and hastened towards the house. Ruth and Mr. Balmley fol- 
lowed in silence. 

9 



98 THE WIDOWER'S DAUGHTER. 

11. 

Stanville Hall was so full of guests, that Ruth had given up 
her own rooms and taken one that had been hastily fitted up 
with old furniture, collected from various parts of the mansion. 
A nondescript article, between bureau and dressing-table, served 
the purpose of the latter ; upon it was a small mirror in an 
ebony frame. 

Before this mirror sat Ruth Eaton, apparently unconscious 
that her fair self was there reflected ; Mrs. Collins, whose duties 
as nurse had been merged in those of the femme de chambre, 
was arranging the hair of her young mistress. The Rev. Mr. 
Eaton, when he consented to part with Ruth, had demanded 
that Mrs. Collins should have the charge of his child in these 
capacities, and it had been granted. 

Ruth was thoughtful and abstracted ; Mrs. Collins, when she 
had plaited the hair of the preoccupied maiden, placed around 
her head a wreath of natural rose-buds, and as she did so, 
was chatting away all to herself: 

" I wore just such white rose-buds, the day that I was mar- 
ried ; emblems of purity and innocence, as my minister said. 
My beautiful buds came from the tall white rose-bush, in Ma- 
dam Eaton's front-yard ; I wonder if it stands there still ? 
Your father likes these roses ; your grandmother, Miss Ruth, 
was one of the saints upon earth : she is now in heaven. St. 
Paul has not forbidden rose-buds, as he has gold and pearls. 
There now, you look just like your own mother ; poor dear 
lady that she was ; you don't favour the Eatons. Your father 
would admire to see you at this moment, the very image of 
your mother. Miss Ruth; do you hear what I say?" 

She was interrupted by a knock of the door. It was a ser- 
vant with a small parcel, for Miss Eaton. 



THE WIDOWER'S DAUGHTER. 99 

It contained a letter from her father, a couple of books, and 
his likeness in miniature. 

" From Boston ?" inquired Mrs. Collins. 

" Yes ; only thirteen days since." 

" Dear old Boston ! The pride of the earth ! If I could only 
see the tip-top of the State House, it would do my old e}es 
more good than all the fine sights of London." 

Though anxious to hear the contents of the letter, and very 
curious about the nice little parcel, that had not yet been 
opened, Mrs. Collins left Ruth for awhile alone. 

Before she had finished the letter, her eyes were blinded 
with tears. She tore open the envelope from the miniature 
and gazed, long and wistfully, upon the face of her father. 

Again she reverted to the letter. 

" Fifteen years have passed, since I parted with my sweet 
little Ruth. Your arms were clasped so firmly around my 
neck, when I was about to leave you, that I had to tear myself 
from you. From the lovely child to the young lady, how 
great the change ! Now, you are perhaps estranged from 
me ; I should not know my own darling. Look, my child, at 
the face of your father, as the painter has delineated it. I have 
left youth far behind ; already age has sprinkled among the 
dark locks, silvery tokens of my progress towards the grave. 
Sickness, sorrow, and loneliness, have doubtless increased 
these tokens, tenfold." 

Ruth again dwelt long upon the mournful countenance 
before her. The expression of powerful intellect, softened and 
refined by piety, was in perfect accordance with her own pre- 
vious conceptions ; but the sadness and extreme pallor struck 
her with surprise and alarm. Again she read : — 

" My daughter, the home to which I invite you, is the simple 



100 THE WIDOWER'S DAUGHTER. 

parsonage of a plain country clergyman. Can you cheerfully 
consent to leave the splendid mansion of your uncle, and pre- 
side over my humble home ? If I have read the character of 
my Ruth aright in her letters, she will hasten to gladden her 
father's lonely dwelling with her presence. But observe, my 
dear child, I do not command, I only invite you to come 
home." 

" Home, home !" repeated Ruth in a voice, softened by ten- 
der emotion. 

" I have made every needful arrangement," continued her 
father, " with reference to your voyage across the Atlantic. 
My old friend, John Hancock Lee, will meet you and our 
good Mrs. Collins, in Liverpool. He will send you his address, 
and tell you what vessel he is to take on his return. 

" May our heavenly Father guide you, and if it be his holy 
will, bring you safely to the arms of your father." 

The summons to dinner was unheeded. A servant was 
sent with a request from Mrs. Stanville, that Miss Eaton 
would immediately take her seat at the table. Ruth sent an 
apology, a true one, for she had indeed both headache and 
heartache. 

Mrs. Collins, on seeing the miniature, was so grieved at the 
change that had taken place in Mr. Eaton, that the sadness of 
Ruth was deepened, and her anxiety increased. 

Soon after the company rose from table, Ruth received 
a summons from her uncle to meet him in his library. She 
went with a beating heart. 

Mr. Stanville handed a chair with the most punctilious 
politeness, and without the ceremony of a preamble, said, as if 
it were an expected event, 

" Ruth, my dear., Mr. Balmley has proposed for you." 



THE WIDOWER'S DAUGHTER. IQI 

" Proposed ! MHiat has he proposed for me ?" inquired 
Ruth, with unaffected surprise. 

" Himself." 

" Mr. Bahiiley ! I am almost a stranger to him." 

"By no means; he has heard much of you from your aunt, 
and has her good wishes as well as mine, for his success. He 
has an immense fortune, and is heir to an earldom on the death 
of an uncle." 

Ruth remained silent with astonishment. 

Mr. Stanville continued : 

" I depend upon your acting in a manner becoming the edu- 
cation you have received. No silly romance. Mr. Balmley 
is not to be trifled with. Shall I summon him to receive your 
acceptance ?" 

" No, sir ; I am going home." 

" Home ! This is your home." 

" My home is with my father, in New England. I have 
received a letter from him inviting me to come to him. He is 
desolate and sad, and it is my duty and my pleasure to go to 
him. I am truly grateful for all the kindness shown to me by 
yourself and my aunt, and must beg that you will add still 
another obligation, by being the bearer of my refusal to Mr. 
Balmley." 

" Ruth Eaton, you shall not return to New England ; you 
shall marry Mr. Balmley." 

Ruth rose to leave the library. 

" Be seated," said Mr. Stanville, at the same time ringing a 
bell. A servant appeared, and was despatched for Mr. Balm- 
ley. As soon as that gentleman entered the library, Mr. Stan- 
ville said, in the blandest possible tone, although his face was 
flushed with anger, 

9* 



102 THE WIDOWER'S DAUGHTER. 

" Henry, plead your own cause, as eloquently as you do the 
best interests of your country in Parliament, and there is no 
doubt of your success." 

Mr. Balmley repeated the proposals made by Mr. Stanville ; 
but it is doubtful if his eloquence was superior to that of other 
men on similar occasions. It is not the field for eloquence. 

Ruth, perhaps, had the advantage in this respect. She gave 
Mr. Balmley a brief narrative of her uneventful life ; — the 
sorrow of her father at parting with her ; the loneliness of her 
own heart through childhood and even to the present hour ; 
her deep, intense love for her native land ; her desire to cheer 
and aid her father in those arduous duties which were bring- 
ing upon him premature age ; and she concluded with an 
earnest request, that Mr. Balmley would persuade her aunt 
and uncle to allow her to go home. 

" I admire the nobleness of your sentiments," replied Mr. 
Balmley. " That peculiarity in your character, which has 
been termed romance, perhaps more properly belongs to me, 
and has led me to form those presumptuous wishes which I 
have expressed. Disgusted with the heartlessness, the grasp- 
ing worldliness of women of fashion, I have waited for several 
years, hoping to meet some true and simple-minded girl, who 
would not be attracted by the wealth which I unfortunately 
possess. In seeking for a wife, I wished for a friend — for 
intellectual companionship — for sympathy ; moreover, for a 
guide in those paths in which men too rarely walk." 

" Then you need some one more wise and more experienced 
than Ruth Eaton." 

" I need just the wisdom that you possess, Miss Eaton ; the 
W'isdom that is not of this world, for I am satiated with its 
follies and its pleasures ; I need a guiding angel, whose sweet 



THE WIDOWER'S DAUGHTER. 103 

influence will win me to a better life. But, as you have other 
and higher duties, I must relinquish my hopes. I will endea- 
vour to persuade your friends to part with you, though it 
seems a cruel task ; and if you will allow me to do so, I will 
seek Mr. Lee, in Liverpool, and learn from him what arrange- 
ments he has made for you, and your faithful Massachusetts 
woman." 

" You are too kind, Mr. Balmley," said Ruth, with the glit- 
tering tears upon her cheeks. 

Mr. Balmley rose and left the library. 



IIL 



One week had rapidly glided away in Liverpool. 

The farewells had all been spoken, and Ruth and her faith- 
ful nurse were losing sight of the shores of England, in the 
good ship which rapidly bore them over the waves. 

But why sits Ruth Eaton so mournfully gazing upon those 
retreating shores '( She had there learned to love the beauti- 
ful ; and now her memory lingered with fond delight among 
the venerable trees, the green glades, and sweet flowers of 
Stanville Park. Gratitude, too, throbbed at her heart. Al- 
though her uncle and aunt had educated her to gratify their 
own ambitious views, and had never drawn her closely to 
their affections, she now remembered only their kindness. 
The character of that friend who had enabled her so success- 
fully to accomplish her wishes, now appeared inexpressibly 
noble and excellent. With that strange perversity in human 
nature, which brightens blessings as they take their flight, his 
fine person, his dignified manliness, his disinterested and deli- 



104 THE WIDOWER'S DAUGHTER. 

cate kindness, were viewed through a well-known magnifying 
medium ; his tender farewell lingered like sad music upon her 
spirit. 



IV. 



Mr. Eaton might have sat for the portrait when Dryden 
drew his justly-admired " Country Parson." 

" His eyes diffused a venerable grace, 
And charity itself was in his face ; 
Rich was his soul, though his attire was poor, 
(As God had clothed his own ambassador;) 
Nothing reserved or sullen was to see, 
But sweet regards and pleasing sanctify. 
He bore his great commission in his look, 
But sweetly-tempered awe, and softened all he spoke. 
He preached the joys of heaven, and pains of hell, 
And warned the sinner with becoming zeal ; 
But on eternal mercy loved to dwell ; 
He taught the gospel rather than the law, 
And forced himself to drive, but loved to draw. 

Wide was his parish ; not contracted close 
In streets, but here and there a straggling house. 
Yet still he was at hand, without request, 
To serve the sick, to succour the distress' d. 
His preaching much, but more his practice wrought, 
A living sermon of the truths he taught. 
For this by rules severe his life he squared. 
That all might see the doctrine which they heard." 

His parsonage was sheltered by elms, whose waving branches 
swept over the roof. It was in the midst of one of those quiet, 
beautiful villages which adorn New England. 

The small church, with its gothic windows, and graceful 
spire, closed the vista of the long avenue of weeping elms 



THE WIDOWER'S DAUGHTER. 105 

which formed a contmuous arbour over the main street of the 
village. 

And Ruth Eaton is arranging the little parlour at the par- 
sonage, and giving it an air of comfort, and even of elegance. 

Fresh flowers are in the vases ; the sweet balmy air is 
wafted through the tall white rose-bush, now in full blossom. 
A single bud ornaments the dark hair of Ruth. She has placed 
one there daily, since the first that showed its delicate petals 
through the green envelope. They are associated in her mind 
with the day, when the white buds faded upon her brow, at 
Stanville Hall. Just a year has passed since that memorable 
day. 

Ruth Eaton is romantic ; Ruth Eaton is sentimental, if this 
be a proof of it ; yet she is not the creature of impulse ; she 
possesses a clear, well-balanced mind, a sound discriminating 
judgment ; she performs all the duties that now devolve upon 
her with cheerful alacrity. Her father's health under her 
watchful care has gradually improved ; she has relieved him 
from many of his arduous labours ; she visits the sick and the 
afflicted ; she has established a parish school, and is the super- 
intending genius of all the benevolent and religious efforts of 
the parishioners. They regard her with respect and affection. 
Often have they said, " How strange it is, that Miss Ruth, 
with her English education, has no pride ; she is completely 
one of us." 

Ruth, while thus performing her ministry of consolation and 
usefulness, was realizing some of the visions of other years ; 
her life now had unity of purpose and unity of action ; it was 
the exponent of the hidden life that she had enjoyed at Stan- 
ville Hall. 

The light gate of the little court-yard before the parsonage 



106 THE WIDOWER'S DAUGHTER. 

swung upon its hinges : Ruth hastened to meet her father on 
his return from a walk ; she opened the door ; it was Mr. 
Balmley. 

Without one moment's reflection, she followed the impulse 
of her own affectionate heart, and returned the cordial saluta- 
tion of her friend. 

Explanations, confessions, and professions followed ; ending 
with a reference — usual in such cases — to the father. 



V. 



" Can you give up your own country for my sake ?" said 
the young wife ; " I fear it is too much for me to require, Mr. 
Balmley ; and yet, in this land of true, enlightened freedom, we 
may pass our days more happily than elsewhere. A thousand 
ways of usefulness are here opened to you, and you know you 
have flung away Ambition, not for my sake alone." 

"What definite plan have you formed for my future use- 
fulness, Ruth ; I must lead an active life, to satisfy the de- 
mands of my own conscience." 

" To be sure you must," said Ruth ; " every man in our 
country must be a working-man ; we can have no drones in a 
Republic. You have donned your armour for a crusade more 
noble than that which drew the lion-hearted Richard from his 
native England. Buy a large tract of uncultivated land ; por- 
tion it out into small farms, for British emigrants. Invite 
tenants to come and earn by their labour, the farms which they 
improve. Pay them liberal wages, and whatever they save 
from year to year, let it be appropriated as purchase-money 



THE WIDOWER'S DAUGHTER. 107 

for their own farms. In time, if they are frugal and indus- 
trious, they will own the land which they occupy. 

" Build a church and school-houses. My dear father's 
labours here would be too great without my aid. He can 
find a younger man to take his place, and he shall be the pas- 
tor in the new parish which will thus grow up around us, — a 
community of your fellow-countrymen, rescued by your bene- 
volence, from ignorance, poverty, and vice." 

" My own romantic Ruth, it shall be as you wish, and we 
will call our new settlement, Eaton." 



THE ORPHAN. 

BY HOPE HESSELTINE. 

Within her dear adopted home, 

A lovely orphan dwelt, 
Imparting, by her voice and look, 

The cheerfulness she felt. 

Her loving heart was bound to those 
Who prized her as their ov^^n. 

And by her thoughtful tenderness. 
With flowers their path was strown. 

A youthful circle freely shared 

In her affection true ; 
Her books and harp, her birds and plants, 

Were fondly valued too. 

Untainted yet by worldliness. 

She kept her artless grace ; 
Unconscious of her loveliness. 

Her wealth, and winning face. 



THE ORPHAN. 109 

While life was bright, and future joys 

In vivid pictures came, 
With plans for usefulness, a change 

Was stealing o'er her frame. 

She oft complained of weariness, 

Her brow was startling fair, 
Her graceful form more slender grew, 

And listless was her air. 

Her friends, beneath that fearful blight. 

Had seen her parents die, 
And yet they hoped she might revive 

Beneath a milder sky. 

Then, to their dear adopted one. 

The faithful pair were true ; 
For her they left their pleasant home, 

And bade their boys adieu. 

The shore had faded from their sight, 

When storm-winds lashed the sea. 
And mid the roar of waves were heard 

The shrieks of agony. 

The orphan saw impending death. 

And, in the tumult there, 
She breathed unto the present God, 

Repentant, trustful prayer. 

10 



110 THE ORPHAN. 

The heavy clouds had rolled away. 
And silent was the blast ; 

The noble ship pursued her way, 
Unharmed from keel to mast. 

And like the sea, the orphan's breast 
Was freed from tumult wild ; 

For God, amid the raging storm. 
Had sealed her as his child. 

No more she feared for life or death. 
With childlike faith and love. 

She leaned upon her Saviour's arm. 
And fixed her gaze above. 

They reached at last a sunny isle, 
Where gorgeous blossoms glowed. 

And yet that fading northern flower 
A purer beauty showed, — 

Her mild blue eye, her placid brow. 
Her glossy, golden hair. 

Her snowy robes, and gentle voice, 
Her patient, saintlike air. 

The gay, the gifted, and the good. 
To yield her pleasure vied. 

And felt their hearts had better grown 
For moments at her side. 



THEORPHAN. ni 

The choicest flowers adorned her room. 

And many-coloured fruit, 
And every little elegance 

Her matchless taste to suit. 



So lovely was the verdant isle, 

It seemed a home of bliss, 
" And yet there is," she oft exclaimed, 

" A brighter world than this." 

In murmured words, she sweetly said, 

" Dear Aunt, of all below, 
Abundant blessings I have had, 

Yet joyfully I go. 

" Let not for me your tears be shed, 

Nor wish with me to die ; 
Oh, live to meet those darling boys. 

And train them for the sky." 

As fainter grew her failing strength. 

And rayless was her eye. 
Her spirit seemed with angel ken 

To heavenly things descry. 

When spring-time voices called them home. 

Her blameless life was past ; 
For while they held her in their arms. 

She calmly breathed her last. 



112 THE ORPHAN. 

The loved, though cold and lifeless clay, 
They bore across the sea, 

That in the churchyard she might lie 
Beside her family. 

And strangers, on a sculptured stone. 
The orphan's name may trace. 

While lingering to praise the flowers 
Which bloom about the place. 

Though buried there the casket lies. 

Its bright, ethereal gem, 
With glory lit, is sparkling now 

In Heaven's diadem. 



A FEMALE PURSUIT IN ANCIENT TIMES. 



BY THE REV. GEORGE E. ELLIS. 



The successive objects of intellectual interest are so nume- 
rous and engrossing, that many pursuits which once claimed 
an absorbing attention from human minds have passed away 
into oblivion. When recalled to remembrance by the help of 
ancient books, and set forth amid the fresher themes of pre- 
sent employment, the aroma of the past and the gray hue of 
antiquity give them yet a new interest, additional to that which 
they once possessed. 

Among the studies which have ceased to be pursued, — 
which no longer have a single pupil in the world, — one which 
has about it many sweet memories, — is that which, in a for- 
mer time, was most devotedly pursued among females of rank, 
and which is known in ancient books as " The Doctrine of 
Signatures in Plants." This study bore the same relation to 
Botany, as Astrology bears to Astronomy, and Alchemy to 
Chemistry. But it should likewise be allowed, that the study 
of Signatures in Plants, was always entirely free from those 
unholy or dubious associations which are connected insepa- 
rably with ancient Astrology and Alchemy. The subject 
which we are now recalling to remembrance, was never per- 

10* 



114 A FEMALE PURSUIT IN ANCIENT TIMES. 

verted to base uses ; it is wholly pure from evil ; and though 
it partakes largely of delusiveness and mere fancy, it was 
altogether harmless. 

The main principle involved in this delightful study, and 
forming the basis of all the methods and conclusions which 
entered into it, may be stated as follows. Every plant, flower, 
and vegetable product of the earth, is expressive or symbolical 
of truth. It is the emblem or signature of some lesson of life, 
which attentive observation can search out, and put into appli- 
cation. Either in its shape, its constitution, its mode of growth, 
or in its products, each plant, all the earth over, is a secret 
symbol, or counterpart of a moral or practical truth. More 
than this even was embraced under the beautiful — though it 
must be acknowledged, most fanciful study of the Signatures of 
Plants. It involved likewise the belief that each plant indicated 
in some way its uses to man, the service to which it might be 
put, and the end which it would fulfil. One instance in illus- 
tration of the principles and application of this ancient science, 
so called, may help to make it somewhat more intelligible at 
the present day. 

Thus, a forest nut, a walnut or shellbark, was said to be the 
signature of the human head— the vegetable emblem of the 
crowning glory of the human frame. While the whole nut 
thus answered to the whole head of man, the various parts of 
each corresponded also, and certain delicate afhnities might be 
traced between the uses of each. The outer, shaggy bark of the 
nut answered to the hair of the head. The hard shell of the 
nut corresponded to the hard bones which form the skull. 
The delicate, thin skin which lined the shell and covered the 
kernel, answered to the equally delicate and vital membrane 
which covers the brain of man. The kernel of the nut an- 



A FEMALE PURSUIT IN ANCIENT TIMES. US 

swered to the brain itself, and a striking similarity might be 
traced between the convolutions, the elevations, the depres- 
sions, the undulations, and the curved lines which divided the 
brain in precisely the same manner as they do the kernel, or 
meat of a walnut. Then too, a comparison was carried out 
between the answering uses of the whole and the parts of the 
two things, whose affinities of structure had thus been traced. 
The gathering of these nuts was a healthful process to the 
human frame. The autumn of the year matured them, as the 
autumn of age matures man's wisdom. The frost brought 
them to the ground, just as the frost of age silvers over the 
hair of man, and bows his head. More closely too, might the 
uses of the vegetable be applied to serve that of which it was 
the signature. An oil made of the nut-bark and shell was 
found to be excellent for the hair, and the deliberate chewing 
of the kernel, invigorated the mind, and promoted activity in 
the brain, of which the kernel was the signature. 

This is one illustration among hundreds which might be 
adduced, of this fascinating though imaginative science. That 
many remarkable analogies, and indeed many startling truths 
should present themselves from the systematic pursuit of such 
a theory, any one who has thought much upon similar fanciful 
theories is well aware is a result most likely to occur. Some 
really striking facts verified the science in its own day in spite 
of overwhelming objections. 

In pursuit of these pleasing analogies, which connected, as 
was supposed, the field of nature with the realm of truth, there 
was scarcely a vegetable product which escaped the cunning 
processes of human ingenuity. The foretelling of fortunes, the 
curious arts and charms of ancient medicine and surgery, the 
blisses and pangs of sentimental love, were alike served and 



116 A FEMALE PURSUIT IN ANCIENT TIMES. 

ministered to, by this doctrine of Signatures in Plants. The 
study was once most indefatigably engaged in, and the faint 
traces and particulars of it, which we find in venerable and 
antiquated volumes, are doubtless but very feeble indications of 
the influence and interest of the study, when it was a living 
theme. The vestiges of it which still remain are familiar to 
many young ladies under the modern titles of The Language 
of Flowers, The Sentiment of Flowers, or the Emblems and 
Truths which are partly revealed, and partly disguised in tints, 
petals, and foliage. 

Many beautiful analogies and lessons are thus traced out, at 
the present day, but it may well be conceived that the ancient 
study was a sterner, a more thoughtful and serious one, far 
more so than the lingering representation of it, which now 
appears in our pretty volumes. The word fanciful, which we 
have applied to this ancient study of the Signatures of Plants, 
belongs to it only as we look back upon it from our present 
point of view. It was far from being fanciful to those who 
heartily pursued it. It engaged a measure of their firm belief; 
it had an equal devotion of the hearts of its votaries, with that 
which Astrology and Alchemy received. 

It is to be remembered too, that this engaging and innocent 
study formed an occupation, at the time when it flourished, for 
the dames and daughters of rude and boisterous men in the 
ages of baronial strife and feudal rule. Very often were 
delicate fingers turned from their patient tasks on the tapestry 
loom, to cull a few flowers from within the enclosure of the 
castle wall. Very often did the returning hawking party wit- 
ness a loitering of the females amid the woods and ferns of 
the forest, in search of leaves, roots, or berries. Then in the 
dull days of seclusion, and in the sameness of a rough mode of 



A FEMALE PURSUIT IN ANCIENT TIMES. 117 

life, these vegetable products were pored over with a curious 
interest. 

Human life is largely occupied with trifles under all circum- 
stances. Have the weaker sex ever spent a portion of their 
hearts upon trifles more innocent than these ? Fanciful as to 
us appears this matter of ancient female lore, traces of which 
are found in some obscure epistles, sent by ladies of high birth 
to their female friends, by their devoted champion-knights — 
fanciful and profitless, as it seems to us, it nevertheless an- 
swered many high uses. The Mirror of Life when turned 
upon the past, shows in its reflections but few more lovely pic- 
tures than that of a female group bending over a basket of 
flowers and foliage, to study out the wisdom of the heart and 
soul of the children of God. How softening the influence of 
such a study ; how much incidental knowledge must it have 
affbrded ; what improving habits of keen observation must it 
have fostered. 



HYMN OF THE BLIND GIRL. 

My friends, by ministry of love, 

Are only known to me ; — 
And countless blessings, gracious Lord, 

Acquaint my soul with Thee. 

I know that earth is beautiful, 

Though darkened are mine eyes ; — 

Thus Faith reveals to Christians here, 
The glories of the skies. 

I thank Thee, Father, for the veil 
That hides both noon and night, 

Since Thou art shining, shadowless. 
My ever-present light. 



/ 



THE BRIDE. 



I. 



The softened breath of early June, 
Came gently through an oriel, 

Where lingered in her girlhood's room, 
A bride, mid every fond memorial. 



11. 



Her busy thoughts, from blameless years. 
But pleasant scenes were rallying. 

As winds that pass o'er fields of flowers. 
Are sweeter for their dallying. 

III. 

And yet, those dear, remembered joys. 
Her spirit, now, were saddening. 

As shadows fall from rearward lights. 
Which erst our path were gladdening. 



120 THE BRIDE. 

IV. 

Then, mingling with her pensiveness, 
Came deep and solemn ponderings, 

On Him, who had so guarded her 
Through all her girlish wanderings. 

V. 

New joys and cares must soon be hers 
With childlike faith and lowliness. 

She knelt to ask for future strength 
From God, the source of holiness. 

" Here, O Father, since my childhood. 
Daily I have knelt in prayer ; 

Thou hast granted my petitions. 
Guarding me with ceaseless care. 

" Pardon all my heedless straying, 
Be my future Friend and Guide ; 

Let me not, for man's affection. 
Wander from my Saviour's side. 

" O ! when I have left this dwelling. 
Cheer, I pray, my parent's heart ; 

Give my sister holy wisdom. 
Well to act the daughter's part. 

" Make me, O ! Almighty Father, 
Firm amid the ills of life ; 

Henry's will through love obeying, 
A devoted, faithful wife. 



THE BRIDE. 121 



" Pilgrims to the Heavenly kingdom ; 

Till relieved, v^e lay them down, 
May we bear each other's burdens. 

And at last receive the crown/' 

VI. 

She rose, and glided from the room ; 

A heaven-imparted purity 
Was blended with the earnest faith. 

That nerved her for futurity. 



W. 



11 



THE LATHROPS. 

A PLAIN STORY. 

BY THE REV. H. HASTINGS WELD. 

CHAPTER I. 
Wise thoughts, which no young person will heed. 

All men build castles in the air, and all women furnish 
similar airy fabrics ; for in dreamland, the distinctions and 
tastes of sex are preserved ; and if men construct houses, in 
imagination, women follow their in-door vocations in the same 
facile country. If men speculate in impossible fancies of ad- 
vancement, women go a-shopping in the hke unsubstantial 
manner in their secret cogitations. It is a pleasant illusion 
while it lasts ; and that is as much as can be said of any other 
thing of time, sense, or fancy. 

Youth is a famous season for day-dreams ; and the younger 
the youth, the gaudier the visions. The boy settles the colour 
of his servants' livery that is to be, though, to the cost of his 
own limb and muscle, he knows that the only carriage of 
which his father can boast, is a broken wheelbarrow; and the 
girl determines whether her diamonds shall be set in sprigs, in 



THE LATHROPS. 123 

crescents, or in some other form, though the nearest approach 
to jewelry in her maternal home, be the paste which is filling 
her teeth, while dreams of Golconda fill her imagination. 
The poorer the point from which the child peeps into futurity, 
the better is the prospect. Perhaps this arises from a latent 
suspicion, that while indulging in impossible imaginations, it 
is as well to treat one's self to the farthest sketch, as to stop 
short of the utmost limit of a road which is so easily travelled. 

As years increase, the fancies and hopes of the young 
dreamers are tinged and sobered by experience. Points are 
reached which have promised miracles, but which fail in the 
test, from keeping the contract they had made with Hope. 
But in despite of continued disappointments, we still hope on ; 
and it would seem as if the dispersion of one dream were 
only a warrant for the fulfilment of the next ; as if the future 
were under obligation to atone to us for the failures of the 
past. 

Everybody said that young Mr. Lathrop and his young 
wife commenced life under delightful auspices. Everybody 
was right. A competence in fortune — an apparent congeni- 
ality of disposition — the approval of connexions on both sides 
— the good wishes of troops of friends — buoyant hearts and 
cheerful tempers — all united to presage happiness, greater than 
is usually the lot of mortals. Everything was in such a de- 
lightful harmony, that if we were only to conclude our sketch 
where sketches usually end, instead of commencing it where 
the delightful catastrophe is generally reached, the curtain 
would fall on as sunny a scene as ever novelist essayed to 
paint. 

Neither of the parties, it is hardly necessary to say, knew 
each other, for men and women are commonly yoked together 



124 THE LATHROPS. 

in happy ignorance of the characters of those to whom they 
are pledged for hfe — for better for worse, for richer for poorer. 
Matrimony, whether people will acknowledge it or not, is the 
heaven of the dream of youth. Despite of the disappointment 
of others who have tried the experiment, young humanity 
looks forward to it as the acme of earthly bliss. Once " fast 
bound," man and wife are thenceforward and thereafter to be 
" fast found" in all that makes life desirable, till death do them 
part. Alas ! that as Jacob was not the first so neither hath he 
been the last to find himself united to Leah, when he had 
counted on Rachel. The customs of the East do not more 
effectually conceal from each other the characters of bride and 
groom than they are hidden by our social conventionalisms. 
Man goes masquerading to seek a wife, and woman receives 
his visits by the proxy of her reception face — the real woman 
being better known to Betty in the kitchen, than to any gentle- 
man of them all who is admitted to the parlour. Both suitor 
and sued have been labouring under young delusions. There 
may be " nothing half so sweet in life, as love's young dream," 
but sweets have a chemical affinity to acids, and matrimonial 
affinity has the same degenerate tendency. The girl and boy 
have each an impossible ideal — invested with all sorts of unat- 
tainable perfect traits. When a real man or a real woman is 
elected into the niche of fancy occupied by this vision, the 
dreamer falls to work to gild the mortal up to the fairy stan- 
dard of imagination. Such melancholy mirthful delusions do 
these efforts to make etherealities out of flesh and blood pre- 
sent, that the wildest machinery of the " Midsummer Night's 
Dream" is prose in comparison; the utmost extravagance of 
Titania, with the " fair long ears" of her transformed weaver, 
is less than the wilful delusions of young husbands, and young 



THE LATHROPS. 125 

wives. These golden fancies soon scatter before the test of 
reahty. Therefore, though, as we have said, our young couple 
commenced life under delightful auspices, it by no means fol- 
lowed that these pleasant indications could not deceive. 



CHAPTER II. 
The Wife's intimate Friends. 

*• I have such a surprise for you !" said Louisa to her hus- 
band, one morning. " Suzy is coming to spend a month with 
us." 

" Suzy ?" asked her husband, not recollecting who this 
charming person could be, whose anticipated visit caused his 
wife so much pleasure. 

" Why yes, William ; Susan Ayling — how dull you are to- 
day — my intimate friend, you know." 

" Oh, yes ; Miss Ayling," replied Wiliam ; " I remember." 
He remembered her as a very insipid, quietly obtrusive, ridi- 
culously romantic, nauseously affected, and to him thoroughly 
disagreeable person, who had always managed to be in his 
way, while he was paying his devoirs to his intended, and 
who, he more than suspected, received at secondhand all the 
kind things that he said to Louisa. Nothing annoys a man 
more than this. Lovers' protestations are very insipid in the 
repetition. There is a peculiar state of gentle weakness of 
intellect, necessary to prompt their utterance. A man in love, 
is Hercules with the distaff; and he no more desires, when the 
access of fever is off, to be reminded of his infirmity, than the 
slayer of the Nemean lion would have desired (had daguerreo- 

u* 



126 THE LATHROPS. 

types been then in fashion) to have Apollo pencil him in sun- 
beams at his feminine relaxation. Therefore — -notice it when 
you will — a newly-married man seldom loves his wife's very 
intimate friend very dearly, unless both she and his wife are 
persons of remarkable and unusual discretion, and either know 
what may safely be conversed about, or have such careful 
watch not only over their lips, but over their looks, that no- 
body suspects their interchange of confidence. Miss Susan 
Ayling was no such person ; and much as it is our wish to 
interest the reader in Mrs. Lathrop, we must acknowledge 
that she too was very far from any danger from excessive 
prudence. Lathrop had begun to find out his wife's weak- 
nesses ; and as to her friend, it would perhaps be rather too 
strong an expression to say that he perfectly hated her, 
though his regard was little less than hate. He despised 
her ; and certainly felt anything but pleased to hear that she 
was to be domesticated under his roof. He, however, forced 
himself to say something to save appearances, and was careful 
not to venture upon any inquiries as to whether this vampyre, 
as he inwardly termed her, had obtruded her visit, or whether 
she came duly, formally, and pressingly invited. He feared 
to find that the latter might prove the case ; and it made him 
a little jealous of his wife, that she should desire, at this early 
period of their union, any society beside his own. Newly- 
married people are amusingly jealous and selfish, both men 
and women ; the best of them no better than jealous — the 
worst of them much worse than selfish. 

In due time came the visiter. William, who happened un- 
fortunately to be at home, could have tossed her out of the 
window, as she rushed — nearly to the extinguishment of 
Louisa's eyes with her hat — into her arms — we were about to 



THE LATHROPS. 127 

say, into her mouth. Then chnging, with more abandon than 
grace, about her neck for the regular five minutes, with which 
boarding-school misses, after three days' absence, salute each 
other, the vampyre released her hold, and dismissed her victim 
thoroughly tumbled. William hated untidiness quite as much 
as he did affectation. 

" And now, my dear sis," proceeded the visiter, without 
noticing the presence of Lathrop, who stood a few paces off, 
uncertain whether it w^ould be proper for him to remain or to 
retreat, *' do tell me if the halcyon dreams of fond, confiding 
youth are realized in the tender arms of him who has assumed 
the reign in your innocent, trusting heart. Is he mother and 
father to you — brother and sister — and oh, more than all, can 
he supply the place in the union sweet of hearts which has 
been our life and joy?" 

" Bacon and spinage !" muttered Lathrop, as he bounced 
out at the nearest door. What particular connexion those 
edibles had with the speech of Miss Susan Ayling, we cannot 
undertake to say. Probably William spake of them to keep 
his tongue out of mischief. Be that as it may, he hurried off, 
without saying a word to his wife's guest, and left the dear 
friends in the undisturbed enjoyment of their tete-a-tete. He 
had enough of it. Now, for the first time since his marriage, 
he began to feel that his home was losing its attractions. 
Endure it, wdth such a person as this visiter there, he felt that 
he could not. A brisk walk somewhat relieved his petulance, 
however, and rejoicing that he had not betrayed his disgust in 
any remarkable manner, and that his wife, at any rate, alone 
suspected his feelings, he saw the propriety of returning, dis- 
agreeable as the duty was, before his absence should be com- 
mented upon. 



128 THE LATHROPS. 

Perhaps there was rather more than quite enough cordiaUty 
in the manner in which he welcomed Miss Susan to his resi- 
dence — much more than enough if we are required in our 
greetings to pay any regard to the truth. Certainly there was 
no need of his pressing Susan to his heart, with a theatrical 
grimace to his wife as he did so. To the wife, it was alto- 
gether inexplicable — to Susan, rather difficult of solution. But 
she resolved, that in her future reading, she would watch and 
find out whether it is not romantically orthodox for a man 
who is devotedly attached to his wife to extend his tender 
attentions to her intimate. At any rate, as it was among the 
most unexpected surprises of her life to be thus complimented, 
she was not over-curious as to the rationale of the thing, par- 
ticularly as she did not happen to know what expression of 
face William wore when his head was over her shoulder. 

Of one thing Mrs. Lathrop began at length to be sensible ; 
and that was that it was her duty to be very angry with her 
husband for his conduct. And this conviction reduced her to 
a troublesome dilemma. She could not, d. la romance, be 
angry with William without a confidant into whose ears she 
could pour her griefs ; and William kept up a provoking series 
of burlesque attentions to Miss Susan, which she, good, simple 
soul, received with the most delightful gratitude. Could Louisa 
tell her that her own husband was a base traitor — a breaker of 
friendship — a wringer of his wife's heart — an abuser of her 
dear friend— and all this too without that dear friend's sus- 
pecting it? Certainly it was as ungenerous a mode of tor- 
ment, and as effectual as ever a malicious rogue of a young 
husband hit upon. Commenced without premeditation, it was 
continued with provoking pertinacity. William kept his wife 
on nettles lest even the romantic stupidity of the butt of his 



THE LATHROPS. 129 

mischief should suddenly discover that she was made game 
of; and what was begun without a motive, except the prompt- 
ings of impromptu mischief, was persevered in for the advan- 
tage it gave him. Louisa, as we have hinted, was in an 
awkward dilemma. As Susan never dreamed that the over- 
strained attentions of William could be anything but sincere, 
she soon began, in the vanity of her heart, to look for uneasi- 
ness on the part of Louisa. We need not say that she per- 
ceived it, nor that the key she invented for it was anything but 
the right one. She regarded Lathrop as a dear, delightful 
villain, and pitied his wife from the bottom of her heart. She 
deeply lamented that cruel fate, who is always a little too late, 
or a little too soon in intermeddling with love matters, had not 
taught him where his affections were really placed, instead of 
permitting him to go and marry another, when all his heart's 
affections were in reality in keeping of the unhappy friend of 
her to whom his word was pledged. 

Common sense would have indicated to a common person 
the proper course to take in such a difficulty. But Miss 
Susan was no common person, and her idea of such matters 
was an adaptation of the Sorrows of Werter to the melan- 
choly situation of herself and William. It was a painfully 
interesting trial to be the beloved of another woman's hus- 
band, which had exceeded her highest hopes. Life, she was 
now sure, was not the mere bread-and-butter and beefsteak 
affair that her unimaginative acquaintances had represented it. 
There was some romance in the world, after all — and she was 
the happy person to make the discovery. Once sure, she re- 
ciprocated William's endearments with most ridiculous ear- 
nestness ; the only difference between them being, that while 
he was most disposed to be gallant when his wife was present, 



130 THE LATHROPS. 

and he could have the opportunity of keeping up his malicious 
telegraph, Susan was evidently better pleased with tete-t-tetes. 
To these our hero was not at all inclined, avoiding them with 
most resolute pertinacity. " Poor fellow !" said Susan to her- 
self; " he is afraid to trust his bursting heart to the ordeal of 
an interview." She honoured his virtuous self-denial, inas- 
much as it was an eloquent compliment to her irresistible 
fascination ; but she did wish that his education had not been 
so much neglected in the line of romantic attachment. 

We need hardly say, that Lathrop was full to suffocation 
with amusement, at the turn affairs were taking ; and that his 
wife was provoked beyond endurance at the disgusting folly 
of her false friend. Her husband it was out of her power to 
reproach seriously, for he only laughed till the tears came 
when she introduced the subject; and she was compelled by 
the contagion to lau2;h also. The end of this visit was Susan's 
retreating from the field, with the consolation that she had 
magnanimously forborne wholly to estrange husband and wife; 
and no little credit did she take to herself therefor. 

If the reader imagines the character overwrought, he is too 
incredulous. The mischiefs done by ridiculous and mawkish 
romances upon young minds are only not suspected in their 
full extent because so excellent an opportunity as was here 
afforded does not often present itself. False in incident, in 
colouring, in morals, in feeling, in fact, and in influence, there 
are no more potent and continual agents of evil than the popu- 
lar romances of the day. The better written are the worse in 
tendency, inasmuch as their pictures are so beautifully drawn, 
and their poison so agreeably insinuated, that disgust does not 
intervene to check or abate the evil. But there is hope of a 
better state of things, and a revolution in the public taste. 



THE LATHROPS. 131 

The baldly profane and indelicate trash, impossible in narra- 
tive, and corrupt in conception, which rejoices in the name of 
cheap literature, is working its own cure. All but the coarsest 
minds are startled at its hideousness ; and we may congratu- 
late our countrymen and women on the fact, that the tide of 
romance, having had its flood, has cast up so much " mire and 
dirt," that the reaction in the public mind will lead to a better 
and a healthier state of opinion. Waiving all debate about 
how far works of pure imagination may be read with safety, 
to the health of the intellect and the purity of the soul, we 
may find a safe guide in this simple rule : — Whatever diverts 
from the proper themes, which, as immortal beings, should 
occupy our thoughts, is dangerous ; whatever tempts us to 
desire that the wrong could be right, is a step farther in a 
perilous path ; and whatever causes us to swerve from that 
duty to God, which he has commanded should be exhibited in 
our conduct to man, is ruinous. 



CHAPTER III. 
His Intimate Friends. 

As we have seen that William was justly indignant at his 
wife's possessing an " intimate friend," who was made a 
sharer in the secrets of the household ; upon abstract princi- 
ples it would be concluded that he would himself be far from 
doing what he so decidedly condemned in Louisa. But, un- 
fortunately, it is very far from being the case that men usually 
avoid in themselves, what they are satisfied is improper in 
others. We seem to view our own conduct, and that of our 



132 THE LATHROPS. 

neighbours with veiy different eyes ; and while we can readily 
perceive the impropriety of a certain course in a second person, 
we can discover no wrong in the same conduct, when prac- 
tised by our ov^'n dear selves. William had his intimate 
friends, as well as his wife ; and candour compels us to the 
acknowledgment that his friends were the worse of the two 
sets. 

A man's best adviser is his wife — and a woman's her hus- 
band. If there must be an umpire in their differences, the 
better is such an one as we shall find occasion to speak of 
by and by. To give any friend power to advise requires the 
betrayal of secrets which should never be breathed to a third 
person ; for the great beauty and holiness of the matrimonial 
tie supposes an unreserved confidence ; — a perfect understand- 
ing on both sides of mutual weaknesses and failings. The 
exchange puts the two parties really on an equality, and if, as 
poor human nature will be very apt to do, each thinks the 
other more to blame, affection should strike the balance, and 
make each content with the other. Few married couples, on 
their first experience, come into this proper view of their duty ; 
and hence it is that the first year or two, in novels and ro- 
mances supposed to be the happiest, are really the most un- 
comfortable years of married life. William was no more 
ready to relinquish his early friends than Louisa was ; and he 
had the advantage of her, as all husbands have, in the fact 
that his chosen companions were out of her reach, and their 
influence over him was, therefore, while it was not so directly 
perceptible, the more potent. Poor Louisa was many times 
puzzled at the whims and the unaccountable caprices of her 
husband. She could not understand how one mind could be 
capable of such sudden and capricious turns and changes in 



THE LATHROPS. I33 

his conduct; and no wonder. His behaviour reflected the 
minds of half a dozen people. He fluttered, like a dog-vane, 
not only with every breath of gratuitous advice which he re- 
ceived, but he vacillated and veered at every joke which his 
careless friends uttered ; and he gave a serious signification to 
many a light speech, which the utterers spake without mean- 
ing, and forgot as soon as spoken. 

Poor Louisa, now hardly through a year of her married 
life, was completely unhappy. She found that neither fond- 
ness nor distance — neither praise nor blame — neither cheerful- 
ness nor sobriety — neither loquacity nor silence could satisfy 
her lord. Certainly he was never — that is to say, very seldom 
— rude to her ; but what was worse than rudeness, he was in- 
different. Sharp words leave an opportunity for atonement in 
the reaction ; and a brisk storm often clears the horizon. But 
a " heavy spell of dull weather," depressing and chilling in its 
influence, is the more hopeless, that there are no breaks in the 
clouds that may offer hope of a clearing away. Her husband 
was becoming every day more careless of his home. The 
accomplishments which had once secured his approval, had 
lost their attraction. The pleasure he once felt and exhibited 
in ministering to her gratification, had ceased. The disposi- 
tion he had once shown to check her apologies for little dis- 
appointments and disagreeables in the household, by good- 
humoured forbearance, and by making a jest of what he 
declared she looked at with too much sober sadness — all 
were gone. In their place, he exhibited a turn for cap- 
tious and unreasonable fault-finding, which compelled her to 
stand continually on the defensive. She dreaded and yet de- 
sired his return to the house, fearing his censure, implied or 
spoken, and hoping, only to be constantly disappointed, that 

12 



134 '^' II •'' T-A'PHTv OPS. 

something would occur in his conchict, sonic word fall from 
his lips, or some expression (lit. over his couutcnnuec, which 
should i>"ive her, thon!i,h cvcv so Taint a ho]H\ vet a hope still, 
thai \hc (h'eanis ol" hiiiipiuess, \\'\\\\ w hieh shi^ had looked for- 
"ward to the iionu^ ol" htM' heaiM, would he realized, at least in 
some dci;rt\\ l?ut it seemed as if all the rose-colour, with 
which she had invested her future, had faded with the orange- 
flowers which decked her hair, when she hound herself with 
the promise, — to woiuimi how o[\cu sadly hinding, — that, leav- 
ing all oIIkm-s, she would cKnivc to him ah)ne. 

And vet it would be unjust 1o saw that William was defi- 
cient in aflection. It was not that he did not dearly love his 
wife, — jiaradoxieal as it may appear, — that he thus teased her. 
In part, his eonduet rt^sulted I'rom disappointment that she was 
not tlu^ perlei't being ^\ hieh he look her for ; but it was more 
because he was constantly receiving bad advice from impro- 
per counsellors, that he sowed his own garden with thorns. 
Men are not, until they have lost too uuieh time in unhappy 
experience, half awan^ how nuieh the sunshine oi' their own 
lu>usehold depends upon tluMuselves. They do not understand 
and cannot feel as women do — tlu\v do not know with what 
crushing weight a word, a careless act, a simple omission, a 
slight, where attention was expected, may press upon a de- 
voted woman's heart. And all women are devoted. The 
most apparently heartless wife, is often the most susceptible, if 
the husband would but know it. Her world owns him as the 
centre ; willingly, if he be worthy, but, however unwillin.gly 
the wife may admit it, still of necessity is the husband the 
regulator of the household. His })rc>s})erity is its comfort — his 
smile its sunshine. 

It wiHild be tedious, because unfortunately too common- 



THELATHROPS. 135 

place, to note all the disagreeables which, from the causes we 
have been describing, hung about the union which commenced 
under the " happiest auspices." Too many married readers 
may recollect more or less of the same description of unhappy 
experience ; and too many have behaved in precisely the same 
foolish manner, the same in kind, though less perhaps in de- 
gree, as Louisa and William. The monotony of discomfort 
was, however, in due time, broken by an event, which, though 
of as matter-of-fact a nature as any in our prosaic world, is 
always treated as the thing most unexpected and unprece- 
dented. This was the advent of a new member in the house- 
hold — a perfect paragon. Father's eyes and mother's expres- 
sion — the manly beauty of one and the feminine grace of the 
other — all were apparent in a countenance which might, to an 
unprejudiced observer, have appeared about as expressive as 
an unbaked loaf of bread, with an accidental elevation, repre- 
senting the incipient nose. Unprejudiced observers, however, 
are, by a sort of instinct, kept away from the nursery ; nor 
are any anxious to intrude themselves unbidden into the pur- 
lieus of babydom. So the little heir of the graces of both 
parents was unanimously voted perfect by all admiring friends 
— and in this state of perfection, we will leave it to vegetate 
for a year or two, while we range ahead to the finishing of 
our story. It is true that much might be said about the almost 
quarrel about the name, and the sulky submission of William 
to his wife's wishes, seconded by the rather pointed remon- 
strance of her friends, against his unkindness in presuming to 
have a choice in the matter at all. Something might be 
spoken, too, of the trials of teeth-cutting, and the vocal gym- 
nastics from over-feeding and hard jouncing — something of 
the horrors of whooping-cough, the calamities of croup, the 



136 THE LATHROPS. 

roughness of rash, the misery of measles, and all the other ills 
that children are heirs to. But we will pass over all this. 



CHAPTER IV. 
Changes. 

In a previous chapter, we have described the end of one of 
Mrs. Lathrop's friendships. Mrs. Lathrop we must now call 
her, for, at the head of the little crib at which she sat, hung 
specimens of an infant wardrobe, which indicated a child so 
far advanced in its little age, that its mother was now to be 
classed among matrons. It was a mild summer evening. 
Louisa had laid her babe down to sleep, and lingered by its 
side to listen to its innocent prattle, or seem to listen, while in 
truth her thoughts were far differently and less pleasantly oc- 
cupied. A bright moon made the apartment as light as day ; 
and the breeze which stirred the flaxen curls on the little 
cherub's temples, came in, laden with the aroma of flow^ers, 
almost to faintness. Moving the little bed, so that the rays 
should not fall full in the child's face, the mother paused to 
look upon her sleeping babe. His ripe lips were parted with 
the easy breathing of youth and innocence. His little hands 
were still in the posture in which they had been placed while 
he repeated the simple and touching lines which are known 
wherever the English language is spoken : — 

" Now I lay me down to sleep, 
I pray the Lord my soul to keep — 
If I should die before I wake, 
I pray the Lord my soul to take." — 



THELATHROPS. 137 

And a white rose, which the darhng held in his clasped fingers, 
had fallen on his breast, as if his gaardian-angel, which always 
beholds the face of the Father in Heaven, had placed the em- 
blem of purity on his little heart — a seal and token of his ac- 
cepted prayer. " Of such is the kingdom of Heaven ;" and 
He who giveth his beloved sleep, smiles on the repose of those 
whom He designated as the fittest though imperfect types, 
amid the sinfulness of earth, of the purity of Paradise. 

Mrs. Lathrop's face w^as cold and calm in the pale beams 
of the moon ; and as she rested her elbow on the child's bed, 
and looked down upon its slumbers, her thoughtful and affec- 
tionate expression and attitude, and the graceful negligence of 
her slight figure and drapery, made her seem almost ethereal. 
It was as if an angel watched the sleeper — alas ! that under 
an outward aspect so heavenly, such thoughts as hers were 
wrestling in her mind. 

" If it was not for you, my darling !" she said aloud ; then 
hesitating to trust her voice even to the solitude of her cham- 
ber, she thought in silence. Many things pursued her in her 
musings. Not the least mischievous of these were the bad 
counsels of officious friends. Susan Ayling had been suc- 
ceeded by more than seven others — all worse than the first. 
As the husband found his intimates and advisers out of doors, 
so did the wife ; and the twain, who had been pronounced one 
flesh, were now almost in the bitterness of hatred. The only 
child, which slept before her, had been sent by Heaven as the 
umpire in their disputes. It was a common bond of affection 
between them — it was the sole tie, indeed, which united them 
any longer. She consulted her friends, only to find new 
methods of annoying him ; and he retaliated, by seeking else- 
where the pleasure which he could not find at home. 

12* 



138 THE LATHROPS. 

" If it was not for you, my darling !" 

What was the alternative to which the mother looked? Let 
those who, for the purposes of paltry gain, sow throughout our 
land the poison of the Satanic school of matrimonial romance, 
answer. Let the honourable men who aid bad women in 
teaching the modern abomination, that those whom God has 
joined together, may sunder themselves at their own option — 
that marriage is a contract of convenience, to be repudiated 
at will — that the holiness of the domestic tie is to be trampled 
under foot like the faded wreaths of a carousal — that the union 
is one of sense and not of soul — that God is not the witness of 
those who pledge themselves, while life endures, under all cir- 
cumstances, and amid all reverses — but that when the wander- 
ing fancy seeks other and newer gratification, He who or- 
dained the marriage union as a conservator of virtue, and a 
school of piety on earth, is to be denied : — let, we say, such 
teachers and their abettors and disciples, male and female, 
answer what Louisa would have determined to do, but for the 
silent pleading of the sleeping babe, of whom she could not 
forget that William was the father, however neglectful and in- 
different he might be to her. Suddenly a new direction was 
given to her thoughts — suddenly and awful. 

The posture of repose changed to agony. The babe's hands 
clutched at its throat — the white rose was caught in the con- 
vulsive grasp — the little limbs, before so calm in their rest, 
were contracted in misery — the face turned purple — the eyes 
protruded from their sockets — and the mouth was marked 
with foam. 

" Help ! help ! in Heaven's name !" shrieked the distracted 
mother, as she caught the babe in her arms, and rushed, like a 
woman frantic, to the parlour. Lights were brought — lights 



\ 



THE LATHROPS. 139 

and assistance. William — for ill news flies apace — was among 
those who entered earliest. The instant application of the 
usual remedies in such cases, relieved the little sufferer from 
the rigidity of the convulsions. The blood resumed in part 
its natural flow, and the poor little hands, torn with an unper- 
ceived thorn upon the rose, bedewed the crushed flower with 
crimson. Strange how the quick eye will catch such little in- 
cidents — the bruised flower was a type still of the little inno- 
cent. It never recovered from its injuries, but speedily ceased 
to be a living blossom. 

So ceased also the babe. He who giveth his beloved sleep, 
soon took the infant to its longer, calmer rest, for it recovered 
only sufficiently to give mother and father one smile, and then 
passed from earth for ever. That smile said : " Love one 
another." That recovery, for an instant only though it was, 
was vouchsafed in mercy, that the memory of their darling 
might be to the parents lovely even in death — a peaceful exit 
from a peaceful life, ere yet the troubles and sin and perplexi- 
ties of the world had wearied the spirit and corrupted the 
thoughts. 

Say not that the child died too young. Thus had it pleased 
Heaven that it should fulfil its destiny ; and in its death God 
did good to the parents. Had the child lived, it would have 
become a cause of discord and a theme of dispute, widening 
the breach, and still farther estranging them from each other. 
Now the two had a common theme of conversation. More 
than ever in their lives before were they united. Louisa 
trembled as she remembered what were her thoughts when 
the hand of Providence in affliction called her to herself; and 
in the renewed kindness of her husband, could scarce forgive 
herself that she had ever dreamed of favouring the dogmas of 



140 THE LATHROPS. 

the modern social disorganizers. She thanked Heaven that 
she had been snatched from the brink of a frightful precipice 
— thanked Heaven — and thanks, thus directed in sincerity, 
never fail to bear good fruit. As she wept over her child, the 
days of her own infancy came back to her, and the memory 
of a mother's love consecrated the vision to her thoughts, now 
that she could indeed feel how intense is that purest of all 
earthly emotions. 

And as Louisa thanked the Directing Care which had saved 
her in the past, she learned to look to the same source for aid 
in the future. The light of truth, as it broke upon her mind, 
taught her all the hideousness of the perils and temptations 
which had so nearly overwhelmed her ; and the dissatisfaction 
and disappointment which had wearied, and the deep affliction 
which had humbled her, weaned her thoughts from idolatrous 
love of earth, and placed her hopes in that better land, where 
death cannot again separate her from her beloved. 



CHAFTER V. 
The Conclusion. 

We need not say that the true reformation of Louisa was 
evident in her daily life and conduct ; for as the tree is known 
by its fruits, the true Christian is known by the .practical results 
of her faith and hope. Empty professions may be denied 
by unchristian acts ; but the amendment of life which springs 
from a heart renewed is shown rather in acts than in words. 
William Lathrop could not remain unobservant of the better 
graces than those which had attracted his youthful observa- 



I 



THE LATHROPS. 141 

tion ; nor could he fail in gratitude to the kind and attentive 
partner who had now become an helpmeet indeed. We 
have not space to follow all the phases by which they passed 
through a most happy change of thought, feeling, and conduct. 
New associations gathered around them. The false friends 
which had deceived both, and the false views which had misled 
them, gave place to better companions and more correct prin- 
ciples. They learned in a word to love each other not only as 
man and wife but as children of the same Heavenly parent ; 
and the bond of Christian love and fellowship sanctified and 
ennobled the marriage tie. Thus only can it be happy. In 
no place more than in his own house will a man find need of 
the example and exercise for the precepts of Him who came 
down from Heaven for our sakes ; and no character on earth 
is more lovely than that of the Christian wife and mother. 
Other arguments may answer in prosperity — but the truths of 
the Christian Religion outshine to dimness all the common- 
places of human philosophy when adversity overtakes us. 
Other consolations will serve for those who are not afflicted — 
but the sure promises of Revelation only can heal the heart 
broken with sorrow, and teach us that whom our Father loveth 
he chasteneth. 

Another and most impressive lesson still remained for hus- 
band and wife. Remembered of Heaven in their bereave- 
ment, another child came to make good the place of him 
whom they had lost. The pious afl^ection of William now 
rendering him as assiduous as he had formerly been indiffe- 
rent, led him to insist that his wife should not, in the weakness 
which existed more in his aflTectionate solicitude than in fact, 
be tasked with the care of her infant. With a mother's 
yearnings she would have clung to the care of her own 



142 THE LATHROPS. 

babe — but with a wife's obedience, she gave way to the plan 
on which her husband had set his heart. 

An apphcant soon answered their inquiries. Louisa was 
struck with the tones of her voice, though her face was hid- 
den with a thick veil. But for this circumstance she would 
not have heeded the application of the stranger ; for there was 
in her appearance anything but a warrant of introduction. 
An absence of neatness marked her whole attire, and Louisa 
shuddered to think that the life of her child should be sup- 
ported from such a source. The interview was rendered still 
more painful by the embarrassment of the applicant, who at 
length rose to depart, without pressing her errand — indeed she 
rather avoided it. Accident exposed her face, and Louisa 
exclaimed, 

" Susan Ayling !" 

The girl sank back in her chair, weeping bitterly. Had 
she been aware whose advertisement she was answering, she 
would have been far from enduring the mortification; but 
want, wo, and vice had made her forget Louisa. Now, she 
was faint and sick at heart, that her first effort at escape from 
what seemed inevitable vice and misery, should be thus de- 
feated. She expected only contempt and repulse, for romance 
has no better lessons for its readers ; she expected anything 
but comfort and forgiveness, for the schools of crime teach 
that revenge is a virtue, and that triumph over an enemy is a 
rational joy. 

Poor Susan ! Her story — for won by Louisa's kindness, 
she related it to her, glad at last to find a pitying ear, — was 
an old one. It has been often repeated ; often we fear it will 
be again, while false views of life prevail, and disregard of 
that better than all human systems, which should be our only 



THE LATHROPS. 143 

guide. Her child was dead — its father was a felon in prison. 
A dashing villain, he had poured into her ready ears the very 
nonsense which she deemed the proper language of the new- 
light Utopia which her imagination painted. Honour untram- 
melled was her deity, and he professed it his. She would 
have preferred that honour should have paid a decent respect 
to usage, but he accused her of mercenary and unworthy pru- 
dence, and demanded of his chosen, a chivalric contempt for 
fanatical and superstitious observances. They quarrelled and 
caroused by turns, as poverty and abundance alternated, till at 
length he closed his " liberality of opinion" in the illiberal pre- 
cincts of the penitentiary, and Susan applied her romance as 
the answer to an advertisement. 

Mrs. Lathrop would not permit her to sink back into desti- 
tution. Her influence introduced the wanderer to comfortable 
though unrom antic support — her advice and assistance is 
moulding her character for permanent reformation. He who 
bade the erring Israelitish woman " go in peace, and sin no 
more," will surely second the efforts for good of the friends of 
Susan Ayling. 

We need hardly say, that this incident w^as sufficient to 
enable Mrs. Lathrop to carry a true mother's point, in the 
kind contest which had arisen between herself and her hus- 
band in relation to the child. And now we may take leave of 
the parties in our plain narrative, assuring the reader, that its 
incidents are only such as have occurred, though never per- 
haps in precisely the same sequence that we have here placed 
them. If the experience of others, as we have here detailed 
it, saves one person from the disquietudes which follow lack of 
candour and of confidence, where all should be mutual faith, 
our time will not have been spent in vain. If we have re- 



144 THE LATHROPS. 

lated nothing romantic, neither have we anything improbable ; 
if we have failed to satisfy the critics, our own conscience is 
acquitted ; and if the story of the Lathrops does not amuse, it 
is because the plain prose of life does not usually divert those 
who seek the stronger excitement of imagination. The nearest 
approach to happiness on earth, is found in the habitual re- 
membrance of Heaven ; and neither man nor woman may 
expect to find pleasure in life, who finds it not in duty ; nor 
may comfort be found in duty, unless pursued from a higher 
motive than mere decency, expediency, or any other purely 
worldly inducement. 




ij inl II'- llfi 



THE INSPIRATION. 



BY MRS. SARAH J. HALE. 



' My mother's kiss made me a painter." 

Benjamin West. 



I. 

The sun's slant ray was leaning down 

To kiss the closing flower, 
The birds on hurrying wing went by 

To reach their resting bower, 
As evening, like a matron mild 

From duties done, drew nigh. 
Breathing a sweet and soothing calm 

That blessed the earth and sky. 
And rested like a holy charm 

Of blended hope and joy, 
Where in their home's soft shadow sate 

A mother and her boy. 

II. 

His heart like leaping fawn went forth 
Over the scene around, — 

13 



146 THE INSPIRATION. 

Her voice like low, sweet music calmed 

And gave his fancies bound ; 
And yet her tender sympathy 

In every breath was felt, 
As on his pencil's trembling touch 

With cheering smile she dwelt ; 
Oh ! Genius needs this sympathy 

To bid the soul expand. 
As lilies open to the day 

By summer breezes fanned. 

III. 

When first the fount of mind is stirred, 

The mother's loving look, 
In rapture beaming on her child, 

Like star-shine on a brook. 
Makes every gush of spirit wear 

The diamond's living glow. 
And bids the stream of childish hopes 

In golden wavelets flow, — 
Till thus the soul, an ocean filled 

With love's translucent flood, 
Pours out those high, immortal thoughts. 

The tide that mounts to God. 

IV. 

The world has worshipped Angelo, 
And bowed at Raphael's name. 

But never, in the highest place. 
That Genius crowned could claim. 



THE INSPIRATION. 147 

Was such delight as felt the Boy, 

When, at his mother's feet. 
His first weak, wavering sketch he drew 

And earned her kisses sweet ; 
Till waked and warmed by her embrace 

Burst forth the spirit free, 
Prophetic as the sibyl's voice — 

" A Painter, I will be !" 



THE MOTHER'S DREAM. 

BY MKS. L. C. TUTHILL. 

" What blessing shall I ask for thee, 
In the sweet dawn of infancy ? 
That which our Saviour, at his birth, 
Brought down from heaven to earth ? — 

" What in the labour, pain, and strife, 
Combats and cares of daily life ? 
In his cross-bearing steps to tread, 
Who had not where to lay his head ?— 

" What in the bitterness of death. 
When the last sigh cuts the last breath 1 
Like him your spirit to commend. 
And up to Paradise ascend." 

Montgomery. 

The low wail of the boy was hushed. Sleep had partially 
closed the delicate lids over the dull eyes of the sufferer. His 
emaciated arms were thrown above his head, upon the pillow, 
which they rivalled in whiteness. 

The mother sat beside her noble boy ; she tenderly and 
lightly laid her hand upon his high, fair forehead. To the 
burning fever, which had been raging for many days, a gentle 
moisture had succeeded. His sleep gradually became tran- 
quil, and " the blue- veined lids" were, at length, entirely closed. 



THE MOTHER'S DREAM. 149 

The dark expression of agony on the countenance of the 
mother, gave place to the dawning hght of hope. Worn 
with watching and weariness, her head rested upon the pillow 
of the invalid, and she, too, fell asleep. 

" You have asked for power ; you have your wish," said a 
venerable man, with a white, flowing beard. 

The mother looked earnestly in his wrinkled face, and be- 
held the stern features of Time. She stood within the walls of 
the Senate Chamber, leaning against a tall column. 

A momentous question was before those " grave and reve- 
rend seignors" — a question involving human rights and the 
highest interests of the nation. 

A senator arose. In that strongly-developed, muscular man, 
whose every movement was the exponent of intellectual energy, 
she recognised her own, her only son. Joy and pride throbbed 
at her heart as the hushed silence throughout that magnificent 
hall demonstrated the interest which had been excited by the 
rising of the senator. 

When he had for a moment enjoyed that silence, and ac- 
knowledged the spontaneous tribute of respect by a slight bow, 
he spoke, and, in his deep, subduing voice, the mother recog- 
nised the tones which had delighted her ear in his boyhood. 
As he went on, he quoted from her favourite poets, the very 
lines that she had taught him. Her patriotism, her ambition, 
her love of glory, welled forth from his eloquent lips. He ad- 
vocated the cause of his country — " his country, right or 
wrong." He spoke of deep, stern revenge upon those who 
had " tarnished her bright escutcheon." " Honour, bravery, 
renown," were his watchwords, and when he ended, his voice 

13* 



150 THE MOTHER'S DREAM. 

sounded like the trumpet of an avenging demon, as he uttered, 
" War — war ; — we have no resource left but — war !" 

The flashing eyes and flushed brows of the eager listeners, 
evinced that the war-spirit was fully aroused. 

The venerable man, with the white, flowing beard, said, in 
a low whisper, which thrilled like electricity through the frame 
of the mother : 

"Behold the influence for which you are accountable! You 
sway the destiny of millions." 

The proud spirit of the mother was awed, and yet she re- 
joiced ; for power was her idol. 

Transition strange. She stood upon a hill, commanding a 
view of a lovely landscape. The ripening harvest waved 
over the wide fields ; the ruminating herds enjoyed the grate- 
ful shelter of far-spreading trees, or cooled themselves in the 
meadow stream, which lovingly lingered among bending 
flowers. The unmolested squirrel fearlessly hopped from 
stone to stone, along the moss-covered wall, and the birds 
sang their sweetest notes of love and peace. 

Suddenly came upon the ear the tramp of a marching 
army. File after file they passed on, raising clouds of dust, 
which soiled the fresh, verdant fields, and gave a lurid glare 
to the summer sun. 

Their leader advanced. Chivalry's self might have trained 
his white war-steed, and decked this modern warrior with her 
own paraphernalia of glittering gold and flashing steel. 

Again the heart of the mother throbbed with proud exulta- 
tion — " My son ! — my brave, my noble son !" 

While the exclamation still lingered upon her lips, the ad- 



THE MOTHER'S DREAM. 151 

vancing army had encountered the foe. She was amid the 
horrors of a battle-field. 

Those sweet and tranquil meadows were trampled by the 
furious legions, and the limpid rivulet stained with human 
blood. 

The shrill shriek of the wounded, and the dull groan of the 
dying, fell on the ear of the affrighted mother. Through the 
thickest of the fight, she traced from rank to rank the waving 
plumes of her beloved son. 

Men in their last agony gnashed their teeth and gazed upon 
her with the fierce look of revenge. 

The old man again whispered : 

" Behold your own work !" 

Then came the leader, plunging over heaps of the dying and 
dead, cheering forward his few remaining soldiers. The white 
horse was flecked with blood-stains, and the bones of the 
wounded and the dead crushed and cracked beneath his feet, 
as he trampled upon prostrate men. Men ! — fathers, sons, 
brothers, husbands ! 

Brutal ferocity glared in the eyes of the leader — those sweet 
blue eyes, which had been to his mother like the violets of 
spring. 

" Cowards ! If you retreat, we are conquered. Onward, 
to victory !" shouted that voice, to which the mother's heart 
again vibrated with proud emotion. 

At the instant, a cannon-ball dashed him from his horse, 
and he fell at her feet. 

With the death-agony on his stiffening features, he fixed his 
glazed eyes upon her, and, with a tone whose unparalleled bit- 
terness was fiendish, he exclaimed : 



152 THE MOTHER'S DREAM. 

" Mother, your work here is completed, but your power 
shall still be felt in—" 

" Mother," uttered a gentle, feeble voice. 

She awoke from her dream. 

" Mother, please give me some water. How sweetly I 
have slept. I dreamed I was in heaven ; but perhaps God is 
going to spare me to take care of you, dear mother, when 
you will be old and feeble." 

The conscience-stricken mother clasped the emaciated hand 
of her boy in her own, and, as she kissed his forehead, deep 
thanksgiving and earnest prayer went up from her heart. 
" Merciful God ! Forgive my sinful hopes, and enable me to 
instil into his mind the holy principles of peace and good-will 
to all mankind." 



I 



THE DISMAL YEAR. 



I. 



*Tis but one little year 
Since all were here ! — 
My bright-eyed four 
Met me at my cottage door, 
And led me in I — 

II. 

The youngest, on the breast 
Of its fond mother prest ; 
With soft blue eye. 
And jocund cry, 
And childish din. 

III. 

The other three — my pride — 
Ran laughing at her side, 
And she, — in mirthfulness 
Blessed me with welcome kiss 
And winning voice. 



154 THE DISMAL YEAR. 

IV. 

Oh ! let my spirit lie 
In these glades of memory, 
Nor call me ever home, 
Weary — and faint — to roam 
Mid vanished joys. 

V. 

Alas ! I cannot stay ; 
Time sweeps my bark away, 
And ever, ever on 
Blest or alone ; — 
Helpless, I'm driven. 



VI. 



Oh ! where now is my boy. 

Flower of my strength, my manhood's joy ?- 

Hushed his voice of mirth, — 

Its music, lost on earth 

Is heard in Heaven ! — 

VII. 

Where is my infant child ? — 

The cherub, fair and mild — 

With fond caress, 

And gentleness. 

So like her mother ? — 



THE DISMAL YEAR. 155 

VIII. 

Gone — like a moonlit billow — 
Gone from her cradle pillow, 
And she evermore reposes 
Wreathed in Heaven's fadeless roses 
By her angel brother ! — 

IX. 

Where is my gentle bride ? — 
She smiles not at my side, 
As in those days gone by, 
When from her lip and eye 
I drank delight ! — 

X. 

A mother's love called her on high 
To guide her cherubs in the sky ; 
And I am left below. 
To guard my hapless two 
Thro' life's drear night. 

XI. 

Oh ! shield them — gracious God ; 
Teach me to bear the rod. 
Its chastenings to receive, — 
And childlike to believe 
A Father's love. 



156 THE DISMAL YEAR. 

XII. 

Lead us gently — holy Jesus, 
Till thy mercy shall release us, 
Then our years of parting o'er, 
Waft us to those gone before — 
A family above ! 

H. 



EARLY INFLUENCE. 

BY ANNE W. MAYLIN. 

" Ye Whose grateful memory retains 
Dear recollection of ker tender pains, 
To whom your oft-conn'd lesson, daily said. 
With kiss and cheering praises was repaid ; 
To gain whose smile, to shun whose mild rebuke, 
Your irksome task was learnt in silent nook : — 
And ye, who best the faithful virtues know 
Of a linked partner, tried in weal and wo. 
Whose very look called virtuous vigour forth. 
Compelling you to match her worth — 
Give ear." 

Joanna Baillie. 

Influence is an all-potent engine for good or for evil. No 
character, great or humble, is formed without its instrumenta- 
lity. No life passes, whose daily course bears not upon itself 
traces of influence, as its recipient; nor any, whose daily 
course casts not some lights and shadows around it on others, 
as its creator. From the first dawn and springtime of being, 
we are each and every one its subjects : and let us live as long 
as we may, we shall never become absolutely independent of 
its authority. 

14 



158 EARLY INFLUENCE. 

If character is modified and to some extent created, by in- 
fluence, what must be its importance as connected with the 
opening season of existence — its first bearings upon the forma- 
tion of the plastic mind — its earhest tendencies in bending that 
twig, according to the direction of w-hich " the tree inchnes ?" 
Who can number its modifications ? — who mark even one-half 
of its insensible results in the development of taste, thought, 
feeling, principle, and the whole intellectual and moral being ? 
The healthful dew of night is not more silent — the poisonous 
miasma not more unheeded — than many of the early in- 
fluences that most powerfully affect the mind's subsequent 
history and character. Yet the issues of these are not more 
sure in the natural world than are those of the latter in the 
moral. We are formed by them, and know it not. We take 
the various impressions for weal or ill they imprint upon us, 
yet we feel not that these impressions have been made. Thus 
the whole mental superstructure is created, partly irrespective 
of ourselves : and we may become an almost " patriarch 
pupil" in the school of influences, before we are led to analyze 
their origin and progress. 

Both surrounding characters and circumstances contribute 
their share to the sum total of these. Those of the home 
circle, and especially of the maternal relation, are proverbially 
powerful beyond all others. From Rebecca, whose evil 
counsel inculcated on her favourite Jacob the principle and 
practice of deceit, to the mother of Byron, creating, by her 
unnatural coldness towards her child, the almost malignant 
misanthrope of his age ; — from Hannah, lending her son " for 
life unto the Lord," to the mother and grandmother, whose 
" unfeigned faith dwelt" in Timothy also, — the world of great 
as well as minor minds has been swayed and shaped by ma- 



EARLY INFLUENCE. 159 

ternal guidance. This influence is so universally acknow- 
ledged, that it would be but trite to dwell on it. We have 
only to look abroad into history, and its lessons meet us. We 
have but to turn an inward eye upon our own characters, and 
unlike are we to our kind, indeed, if its workings are not 
manifested there. 

We all know who said that his mother's kiss made him a 
painter ; we cannot forget wliose varied and wonderful lingua- 
dental attainments were traced by himself to the encourage- 
ment his infant impulses received, as a mother's voice gently 
answered his unceasing appeals for knowledge, with — " Read, 
and you will know." We cannot forget that he whose " Rise 
and Progress" has gone through the length and breadth of 
many lands, arousing the careless and instructing the Chris- 
tian, referred his own love for the Sacred Scriptures to the 
hours when the guardian of his infancy read him the stories 
of Holy Writ from the Dutch tiles in the old fire-place ; nor 
that his cotemporary, whose spiritual songs have, like those of 
David, gone up to God on the lips of thousands, when bring- 
ing, at the age of three years, a pin from the house of a neigh- 
bour, had the lesson of mine and thine ineffaceably engraven 
on his little mind, by being sent back to restore even that trifle 
to its owner. 

The world of early influences is an extensive one. In- 
fluences whisper to the youthful bosom from nature — from 
history — from poetry — from science — from art. Influences 
come to us in life's first years from all that surrounds us; from 
the first books we read with avidity — the first names in learn- 
ing that arrest our attention — the first strains of music that 
touch our soul — the first voice to which we listen in public, 
speaking with the stirring tones of eloquence — the first epi- 



160 EARLY INFLUEN CE. 

thets that we hear appended to certain mental quaHties, whe- 
ther noble or ignoble — the first associations with which the 
things, of time and sense are spoken of by those around us, as 
compared with things immaterial and eternal. There are in- 
fluences caught from the garden and the meadow — from the 
streamlet and the sky — from the floating cloud and the fading 
sunset — from the wind in the woods and the chirp of the 
grasshopper; — influences, which, breathing themselves through 
the mind of the young noviciate in hfe, modify and colour the 
nature of all its subsequent associations with the objects them- 
selves. 

Who, that has a heart capable of being moved by the intel- 
lectual sublime, cannot recall the high throb of emotion which 
swelled it as its perceptions of mental greatness were first 
awakened by presenting before it some glorious personification 
of that greatness? Who cannot point to some one volume, 
the frequent perusal of which modelled his taste, and formed a 
kind of touchstone by which he learned to judge of others ? or 
to some name in historic or biographic annals, which his 
youthful enthusiasm elevated above all others, as the beau 
ideal of his own aspirations? Never, probably, would there 
have been an Alexander, but for an Achilles : nor, probably, 
might an Elizabeth Fry have blessed and benefited the world, 
had there not lived a Howard. 

Early influences are abiding ones. Their authority over 
even the maturely-developed mind is mighty ; nor can the 
combined forces of reason, and conviction, and judgment, uni- 
formly avail to disenthral it from their dominion. Even the 
giant intellect of the illustrious Dr. Johnson was inadequate to 
emancipate itself from the weak superstitions engendered in 
his infant breast by hobgoblin nursery tales, which were the 



EARLY INFLUENCE. 1,]1 

annoyance of his imagination through his whole Hfe. We 
take the " hue and colouring" of our mental habits, and even 
of our prejudices, from those around us ; and unfortunately, 
in being acted upon by surrounding influences, the affinities of 
our minds for these are not always purely elective. Many of 
them are, indeed, involuntary ; and so much easier is it to sur- 
render ourselves to lower, than to assimilate towards higher 
ones, that the unpropitious ofttimes gain the ascendency over 
the healthful. How vitally essential is it then, that the cha- 
racter of the associations which cluster around our youthful 
years, be, morally and intellectually, such as the heart may 
acknowledge with gratitude and delight, throughout the after- 
pages of its. history ! The key-note in music, giving charac- 
ter to a whole piece, is not more important than that key-note 
of the future character, which is generally given w^ithin the 
walls of home. 

Unhappily, the early influences under which the majority of 
individuals pass their first years, far from encourage a just and 
elevated appreciation of either intellectual or moral excellence. 
The voice of Xhefew, speaking to us from good books and good 
men, declares perhaps the words of truth and soberness : but 
that of the many sets forth the praises of wealth, power, 
folly, and fashion ; and the eternal realities, and sublime re- 
sources of our higher being are scarcely named, or slightingly, 
as castles in the air. Those enjoy a peculiar privilege whose 
early estimates of good and evil, of right and wrong, of light 
and darkness, have not been formed upon the vox populi ; 
whose principles and tastes have been moulded upon such 
models, and such standards, as ever lead them to place the 
intellectual above the animal, — the social above the selfish,— 

14* 



162 EARLY INFLUENCE. 

the valuable above the splendid ; — and finally, the things seen 
and temporal below the things unseen and eternaL 

There could hardly be presented a more beautiM illustra- 
tion of the nature and workings of a high intellectual and 
moral influence, upon the formation of character, than in 
Fenelon's admirable Telemachus. Young, ardent, enthusi- 
astic, inclined to yield himself to the impetus of the moment 
without duly considering whither it would lead him, evil oft- 
times appears to him as good, and good as evil; unaided 
by strength superior to his own, his steps would surely have 
failed a thousand and a thousand times amid the hidden pitfalls 
and quicksands which environed them. 

But behold how gently, yet prevailingly, the holy guidance 
of wisdom leads him along; mildly controlling his choice 
without annihilating it, — guiding, not binding his will ! No Ri- 
naldo, hewing down at one stroke the tree with whose fall all 
the illusions of the enchanted garden vanished as a vision, this 
heavenly guardianship, with gradual growth of power, quietly 
walks by his side, through the voluptuous bowers of Calypso, 
counteracts her siren words of flattery, shields him from the 
fascinations of her preference, and after bringing him victo- 
riously through many minor conflicts, enables him at last even 
to withstand the rising strength of a pure and virtuous attach- 
ment, rather than that anything should clash with the one 
settled purpose and duty of his soul, his return to Ithaca. His 
strutTffles between inclination and honour, between weakness 
and resolution,-^ — the expedients by which he endeavours to 
'hide from his own view the secret disguises of his heart, are 
■delicately and truthfully delineated, and commend themselves 
"to the testimony, the experience, of all who have entered in 
good earnest on the conflict and combat of life. 



EARLY INFLUENCE. 163 

Let us review those influences that have in some measure 
formed our own minds; their nature, character, and effect 
upon ourselves : thence shall we be better able to judge of what 
we may do for those who are in their turn just entering upon 
their career, with bosoms ductile to every image that exam- 
ple, conversation, or observation, may indelibly imprint there. 
Who can tell what each of us is daily doing for these ? We 
need not be parents, or even professionally teachers, to ac- 
complish something in this matter. To each of us is given to 
stir some Utile wave of influence in the mighty sea of mind ; to 
move from its centre some small, but " spreading circle," to 
leave behind us some " footstep, on the sands of Time." 

Let us see to it that the tendency of the influence we exert, 
tell for good upon those who receive it. Let not our discourse, 
our example, our deportment, the spirit and tenor of our lives, 
be such as to lead those around us to feel, or even to appear to 
feel, that, so far as we are concerned, — " to eat, drink, and be 
clothed" according to the standard or fashion of the surrounding 
world, is, in our view, the chief good of human life. Let us try 
to draw from a purer, brighter atmosphere, from " an ampler 
ether and diviner air," the daily breath of our own spirits, that 
we may infuse some portion of its enlivening, invigorating im- 
pulses into those around us. Let us feel that each of us can and 
ought to do something to elevate the principle and practice of 
the age we live in, especially the rising age. That is an utterly 
false humility which declines all such efforts on the fashionable 
plea of those efforts being too insignificant to oppose the tor- 
rent, or too unimportant to be available. 

Drops make up the shower ; grains the ant-hills ; single lines 
of hght the whole concentrated effluence of the glorious sun. 
We may feel that we can be but that drop — that grain, and 



164 EARLY INFLUENCE. 

that if even a single line of light be emitted fronn our moral path- 
way, it must be faint indeed as that of the gray and trembling 
dawn. But if we may venture to hope that only one mind 
which is hereafter to act on life's great stage when we are 
withdrawn from it, shall be able to look back and refer to any 
instrumentality of ours, whether direct or indirect, upon its 
early years, the formation of one good principle, the power of 
increasing the sum of others' welfare, or of its own true happi- 
ness ; if we can lead even a little child by the glorious fountain 
of intellectual delights, or the more glorious fountain of living 
waters, and the footsteps of Him whose favour is life, and 
whose loving kindness better than life : more blessed shall we 
be in the great day of His appearing, than if we had " subdued 
kingdoms," or " taken a strong city." 



WIDOWHOOD. 

BY MISS CATHARINE M. SEDGWICK. 

" For thy dear sake, I will walk patiently 
Through these long hours, nor call their minutes pain." 

Frances Anne Bdtler. 

Many, many years have passed since I was called, with 
other loving friends, to witness the marriage of Emily Remson 
to Murray Winthrop. Never was there a better-sorted pair, 
nor a marriage under happier auspices. They had known 
each other from childhood ; their parents, their grandparents, 
were friends. There was no element of discord in their na- 
tures — they were born to an inheritance of healthy minds 
and hearts. They were educated with sound views of life 
and duty. They had the same circle of interests, tastes, and 
inclinations. They might be strictly called homogeneous — 
everything in them blending in harmony. There was no dif- 
ference between them (in these days of bold assertion, to the 
contrary, we are old-fashioned enough to believe there is a 
difference), but that which distinguishes the man from the 
woman. Milton has said it better than any one can say it 
after him — 



166 WIDOWHOOD. 

" For contemplation he, and valour form'd, 
For softness she, and sweet, attractive grace." 

There could not be, there never were questions of " absolute 
rule" and " subjection" between them, for their wills were 
blended in one. 

The families of both parties were present, and showers of 
prayers, and wishes, and sympathies consecrated the occasion. 
It was a general family festival — a "beautiful hour; when in 
every cloud stood a smiling angel, who, instead of rain-drops, 
showered down flowers." 

For fifteen years life fairly kept its promise to them. There 
was but one flaw in their happiness, and that I have often 
heard Emily cheerfully say, "> I ought not to wish to escape 
from, and I do not ; there must be something — some earthy 
sediment in the clearest cup ; and what could I have easier to 
bear than the ill-health that seems to double my husband's ten- 
derness, and stimulate his invention to open new sources of 
enjoyment to me." 

We often wish that our countrywomen had more health, 
more vigour, and more of the independence and self-reliance 
that spring from physical force. And the time is coming, 
when the want of these will cease to be their reproach, but, in 
the meanwhile, we thank God, that, as in all evil, there is 
some providential mitigation — a reflection of his love even in 
the tear-drop ; so the debility of our women is, in some slight 
degree^ compensated by the gentleness, tenderness, and sym- 
pathy that accompanies it. If our wives lean, they find the 
strongest support — if they are weak and dependent, their hus- 
bands are, for the most part, considerate, generous, and de- 
voted. 

So, assuredly, was my friend Murray Winthrop. Emily 



WIDOWHOOD. 167 

was a wife after the old Israelitish pattern, leaning in her 
very nature ; " her desire was unto her husband" — desire, with- 
out the fear of patriarchal times. She was as free as if she 
were unyoked, for she had no wish independent of her hus- 
band's, and certainly no enjoyment without a partition with 
him. It was not that she lost her distinctive character, as 
certain colours are deadened by the proximity of stronger 
ones, but like a lesser stream, she blended with a fuller one — 
not losing her own power, but giving more force to his. She 
was not one of those silly, " just as Mr. So-and-so pleases" 
wives, or " I have not asked husband, but just as he thinks, I 
shall think." Emily thought and acted freely ; the main- 
spring was in her heart, and that brought out the perfect ac- 
cord. I have never seen a happier home than theirs — sancti- 
fied by the rites of religion, and cheerful with every social 
blessing and virtue. 

Fifteen happy years passed on. They had six lovely chil- 
dren. They had not riches, but uniform prosperity. Win- 
throp had an honourable profession, and a certain income, and 
he delighted to surround his wife with every indulgence that 
could mitigate the evil of her ill-health. He could not afford 
a carriage, but a carryall with one horse, gave her the re- 
freshment of a daily drive with her husband, more enjoying to 
her than if she had had a liveried coachman and half a dozen 
footmen in livery. Neither could they afford a country-seat, 
but they went for some happy wrecks every summer to the 
sea-shore, or to the hill-country. They did not indulge in 
magnificent dinner-parties, but there was always a seat and a 
welcome for a friend at their table — and a good dinner, too, 
for Winthrop in his daily marketing, procured some dainty, to 
secure for Emily the blessing of a relished meal. 



1G8 WIDOWHOOD. 

She was sometimes unable to walk up and down stairs, but 
her husband carried her in his arms, and then, as she said, she 
was more to be envied than pitied. 

I linger in their sunshine. The fifteen years were passed ! 
Winthrop went to New Orleans to help a beloved and only 
brother through an entanglement with a fraudulent merchant. 
In order to extricate him, Winthrop pledged a large portion of 
his own property. If their lives were preserved, there was no 
risk of final loss ; and full of life and health, they scarcely 
thought of the contingency. 

They sailed for New York. A tempest came on — The ship 
was dismasted and unmanageable. A part of the crew and 
passengers took to the boats ; Winthrop and his brother, by 
the captain's advice, remained on the wreck. Winthrop, at 
the moment they were lowering the boat, wrote in pencil on a 
card the following line to his wife, and gave it to one of the 
passengers who was abandoning the ship : — " In all events, 
trust in God, as I now do, my Emily. His ivill be done." 

The wreck went down in sight of the boats ! They came 
to land. The news was sent to Emily by the passenger who 
transmitted to her her husband's last token, and she was 
plunged at once, without the poor preparation of an appre- 
hension, from cheerful anticipations, into the desolation of 
widowhood. She would gladly have covered her face and 
died. The light of her life was gone. Not even her children 
reflected one ray of light to her. The impulse to action was 
lost — the springs of hope were dried up. No more smoothing 
of rough ways for her — no more anticipation of her wants — no 
more defence from hardship — no more providing — no more 
watching ; no more companionship ! She was alone ! alone ! 
How did that word strike, and strike upon her heart the knell 



WIDOWHOOD. 109 

of her departed life. The world was no longer the world she 
had lived in. Thick darkness had settled upon it. It was as 
if the sun had vanished, and the countless starry host had 
passed away. Day and night returned, but not to her came 
their sweet uses ; meal-times brought no refreshment ; she lay 
down to wakeful nights and troubled dreams, and awoke to 
feel again, and again the first blow in all its activeness and 
freshness. Her children were as nothing to her. One blank 
despair had closed the access to all other passions. There 
was nothing left but a capacity for suffering. Where was her 
religion ? — alas ! alas ! she had loved her husband supremely. 
She had forsaken her God — He had not forsaken her. 

I have said that Emily derived no comfort from her chil- 
dren. In this I found some excuse for her, for it indicated to 
me that her mind had lost its balance, and that she had not 
the power to give herself to the holiest ministrations of nature. 
But there was one influence that seemed to reach her. Annie, 
her fourth child, a girl nine years old, had an uncommonly 
sweet voice, and when her mother was exhausted with mourn- 
ing and watching, and her pulses were throbbing and every 
nerve was in tormenting action, she would send for Annie to 
sit by her bedside and sing to her. There was a magnetic 
influence in the child's tender voice. Her mother would be- 
come calm, and sometimes fall asleep. The poor little girl 
would sing on, infected with her mother's sadness, with tears 
in her eyes, no matter whether it were a verse from a hymn, 
or a stanza from a song. Her eldest sister Mary, a thought- 
ful girl, said to her one day, " I wish you very much, dear 
Annie, to learn two or three hymns through, and when you 
find mamma getting quiet, sing them to her." The docile 
child readily acquiesced. Mary, guided by the instincts of the 

13 



170 WIDOWHOOD. 

highest feehng, selected the hymns, and on the next fitting 
occasion, when her poor mother was tranquilhzed, and the 
intervals between her heart-breaking sighs were longer, Annie 
sang the following beautiful hymn ; she had till then sang 
those most familiar and hackneyed, and the words had flowed 
on the sound without producing any impression. The con- 
sciousness of having a purpose, varied the general monotony 
of her singing, and the first half line roused her mother's at- 
tention. 

" Weep thou, O mourner ! but in lamentation 
May thy Redeemer still remembered be ; 
Strong is his arm, the God of thy salvation, 
Strong is his love to cheer and comfort thee. 

" Cold though the world be in the way before thee, 
Wail not in sadness, o'er the darkling tomb; 
God in his love, siill watcheth kindly o'er thee, 
Light shineth still above the clouds of gloom. 

" Dimmed though thine eyes be with the tears of sorrow, 
Night only known beneath the sky of time. 
Faith can behold the dawning of a morrow 
Glowing in smiles of love, and joy sublime. 

" Change, then, mourner, grief to exultation ; 
Firm and confiding may thy spirit be ; 
Strong is his arm, the God of thy salvation ; 
Strong is his love to cheer and comfort thee !" 



Before Annie finished the hymn, her mother raised her head, 
and leaning on her elbow, she drank in every word, as if it 
were inspiration addressed by Heaven to her soul. When the 
child had finished, she drew her to her bosom and wept, for 
the first time, freely, tears that relieved her burdened heart — 



WIDOWHOOD. 171 

tears in which other thoughts than those of grief mingled. 
As soon as she could speak, she said, " Annie, sing that last 
verse to me again." 

Annie repeated it, and her mother repeated after her the 
last line — 

" Strong is His love to cheer and comfort thee !" 

" What love !" she added, " what patience — with me, a 
wretched rebel !" 

" Oh, don't say so, mamma !" said Annie. " I have one 
more hymn to sing to you, that I think is beautiful ; shall I 
sing it ?" 

" Yes ; yes, dear child, sing on, and God grant me grace to 
hear," she added, in mental prayer. 

Annie sang " The Angels of Grief," of Whittier, a poet 
who has given to his high poetic gifts the holiest consecration. 

" With silence only as their benediction, 
God's angels come 
Where, in the shadow of a great affliction, 
The soul sits dumb. 

" Yet would we say what every heart approveth — 
Our Father's will, 
Calling to Him the dear ones whom he loveth, 
Is mercy still. 

" Not upon us or ours the solemn angel 
Hath evil wrought ; 
The funeral anthem is a glad evangel ; 
The good die not." 

A few moments' silence followed. Emily then kissed her 



172 WIDOWHOOD. 

child, with a quiet tenderness that she had not before shown, 
and dismissed her. She did not remain in bed, sighing and 
lamenting, but she arose and passed the night in walking her 
chamber, or on her knees. She reproached herself bitterly. 
She felt that she had forgotten her religious profession — that 
she had denied her Lord in suffering her faith and love to be 
consumed in the furnace from which they should have come 
out purified. Now, for the first, it seemed to her that she re- 
ceived her husband's last words to her, — " Trust in God, as I 
now do, my Emily. His will be done." He, in his extremity, 
was willing, she thought. He rose above the storm — the tem- 
pest carried away my trust. He reposed in me — he thought, 
in that dreadful hour, that he might commit the children to 
my care. I have forgotten them, and every other duty — I 
have lain, like a vine torn from the tree that supported it, pros- 
trate, withering, and dying, and I am a creature endowed 
with a capacity to do as well as to suffer. In my prosperity, 
I believed I was a Christian ! — how have I sunk below the re- 
quirements of this profession. Have I been patient in tribula- 
tion ? Have I submitted to the fellowship of suffering — of 
self-forgetfulness — of self-renunciation. No, no ! 1 have 
thought only of myself. I have dared to expect that life 
should continue the joy it has been. And now, as I am re- 
solved to look forward, and not back, God help me ! 

The next morning, to the astonishment of her children, 
Emily appeared among them. She took her accustomed 
place at table, and calmly served them. She even spoke to 
them of their father, and of the double duty that had now de- 
volved upon her. She felt a faintness coming over, and de- 
sisted, wisely resolving to enter by degrees upon her new field 
of labour. 



WIDOWHOOD. 173 

Life had utterly changed to her. During her husband's Ufa, 
she had been the object of constant indulgence, and a tender- 
ness that fenced off not only evil, but whatever was uncom- 
fortable and disagreeable. This is a false position ; it cannot 
last. There is no petting in life. The school of Providence 
is a school of discipline and trial. Emily 

" Had slept, and dreamed that life was beauty — 
She waked, and found that life was duty." 

But this duty was to make her a higher and nobler being. 
Till now she had been gentle, sweet, and attractive, but loving 
a life of passive and indulged invalidism, she had had scarcely 
more to do with actual affairs, than the ladies of a Haram. If 
she had died then, she would have left no void but in the hearts 
of those that loved her. She had now to seal her sorrows up 
in her own breast ; to endure patiently and silently her own 
loneliness ; to make sunshine for others, while she felt that her 
whole life must wear out in chill dreary shadow. But she 
had religiously resolved, and she amazed her friends with her 
noiseless vigour. She found, on investigation, that her income 
was reduced to very narrow limits. She courageously and 
at once reduced her expenses to her means. 

Some women deem it unfeminine to take care of their pecu- 
niary affairs, and certainly their training and social arrange- 
ments are unfavourable to their qualification for this care. To 
Emily there was but one question ; is this my duty ? that 
ascertained she went forward and did it. She sought advice 
when she needed it, and aid where she required it, but, for the 
most part, she took care of her own concerns, and she " saw 
well to the ways of her household." 

She provided for the education of her children ; she sighed 

15* 



171 WIDOWHOOD. 

to be obliged to renounce advantages for them which she had 
once counted upon as matters of course, but " It is well," she 
said, — " the necessity of putting forth all their powers and 
making the most of all their means is better than Harvard for 
my boys, and the ' first masters' for my girls." She now truly 
honoured her husband's memory, and justified his love. 

She made her home a scene of cheerfulness to her children, 
a pleasant gathering-place to her friends. 

What had become of the elegant leisure, the luxurious indo- 
lence of Emily Winthrop ? They had given place to virtuous, 
productive activity. Where was the invalidism that all the 
appliances of love had but served to nurture ? 

No allopathy, homoeopathy, or hydropathy had been called 
in, but mental energy and heart-energy had supplied that 
wonderful power called nervous energy; and from day to 
day, and year to year her strength was equal to the demands 
upon it. 

The young maiden invested with beauty and hope and pro- 
mise, strikes our imagination. The happy wife has all our 
sympathies ; but she who extracts patience and peace from 
her own privations, who converts her own weakness into 
strength for others, who in her own waste places produces 
flowers and fruits for them, who walks alone through rough 
places leaning on the Unseen — she — the sanctified widow — 
has our highest reverence. 



A FAREWELL. 



BY L. J. CIST. 



I. 

Dreams of my youth — Farewell ! 

The dreams my boyhood knew, 
When fancy o'er me first, her spell 

Of blest enchantment threw — 
Weaving, with thousand threads, 

A golden tissue fair. 
For ruthless time to tear in shreds. 

And scatter to the air : 
Visions of love and joy ! 

Gay dreams ! the magic spell 
Ye cast around me, when a boy. 

Is broken now ! — Farewell ! 

IL 

Hopes of my youth — Adieu ! 

Fair plants of earlier years, 
Warmed by whose sunny smiles ye grew 

To perish since, in tears : 



176 A FAREWELL. 

Fond hopes, too bright to last, 

Where now's your dwelHng-place ? 
In the sad memories of the past 

Your airy flight I trace : 
Hopes, whose aspiring aim 

'Twere mockery now to tell — 
High hopes of Honours, Wealth, and Fame, 

All perished now ! — Farewell ! 

III. 

Love or my youth — Farewell ! 

The fairest thou, of all 
The many cherished dreams, whose spell 

Held my young heart in thrall : 
A form too bright for Earth, 

Wherein, by Fancy blent, 
Was all earth's loveliness and worth 

In one embodiment ! 
Time was, of thoughts that came 

From feeling's deepest cell ; 
The fondest started at thy name — 

'Tis ended now ! — Farewell ! 

IV. 

Lyee of my youth — Adieu ! 

Whose chords, though feebly swept. 
My spirit's strength could yet renew 

When tears I else had wept : 
Thine still the gentle tone — 

When pressed by care and pain. 



A FAREWELL. 177 

So well according with my own — 

I sought, nor sought in vain. 
Scarce from tliy quivering strings, 

Neglected long thy spell. 
My faltering touch this faint note wrings ; 

And now, sweet lyre — Farewell ! 



MANHOOD. 

BY THE REV. M. A. DE WOLFE HOWE. 

" No mountain can 

Measure with a perfect man. 
For it is on temples writ, 
Adamant is soft to wit." 

Emerson. 

What language can fully develope the world of meaning 
which seeks expression in this single word ! It is the symbol 
of the most comprehensive idea which creation affords, — the 
sign of presence for that central thought around which all 
other thoughts conform. It embodies the perfected work of 
Him who is perfection ; and brings to the ear the echo of that 
voice, which, when man was fashioned, and not till then, 
pronounced everything very good. It surpasses even the 
Paradise of unfallen humanity, and pictures to the mind the 
liveliest semblance which could be given, of Him who will 
sanction no image of himself, save that which His own power 
has wrought, and into which His spirit has breathed the breath 
of life ! 



MANHOOD. 179 

Infancy wins upon our regard by its helplessness and de- 
pendence. Childhood arrests our love and wonder by its inno- 
cence, its faith, its swelling germs of greatness. Youth fills 
our hearts with affectionate solicitude, by its buoyancy, 
its glad hope, its matured and impatient energies, its mani- 
fest capacity for good, and fearful liability to evil. Man- 
hood overwhelms us, by the demonstration of its godlike 
power, — that finished type of creation, for which all things 
else were made ! Its attainment is an event more signal than 
the accession of a king to his throne ; — it is a dignity greater 
than the princes of the earth can bestow. It has in it the 
essence of true nobility. 

" Rank is but the guinea's stamp, 
The man's the gold for a' that." 

This would be an overstrained description of manhood, if it 
were limited in meaning to a bare legal complement of years. 
Many a youth deceives himself with the vain expectation that 
time is hastening to make him a man, and that he has but to 
drift passively on its current, into the possession of all those 
high immunities which belong of right to our perfected nature. 
He expects to be fashioned like a rock, or a tree, by the slow, 
and spontaneous accretion of what is destined to constitute his 
integrity; and looks with wistful, almost envious regard upon 
one who has grown to the stature which gives a semblance of 
maturity ; — as if immortal man, like an ox, or an ass, could 
manifest his ripeness by bulk and strength. Manhood involves 
in its meaning, not so much what we may have in common 
with the brutes, as what is distinctive of our race, — maturity 
of mind and soul. 



180 MANHOOD. 

No exhibition is more revolting to one of true perceptions, 
than the vanity of personal development which some crea- 
tures display, who have nothing of the man about them 
except the tenement of flesh which God built for manhood to 
reside in ! — strutting and curvetting like a peacock in the sun, 
when a peacock's head would contain all the sentient brain 
which they possess. 

In common parlance, we speak as if manhood were a 
common thing ; and men are thought to abound in every 
multitude ; but, in truth, manhood is as rare as diamonds, and 
he has had a vision of glory, who has looked upon the being 
whom the angels that chaunted the introit of our first father to 
the holy earth, would acknowledge as a man. Manhood be- 
speaks the lofty mind — the generous soul ; it is the result of 
culture, not the product of years. It developes by ils own 
activity, and not by physical expansion, or extraneous ap- 
pliances. It may become morally colossal, by the blessing of 
Heaven on its accumulative energies, — or its very germ may 
die out by apathy, and leave but ihe living carcass, — a monu- 
ment of superfluous magnificence, to tell of the littleness that 
has been, and is not. 

Manhood is attainable by all, but cometh not like property, 
by descent. He who would gain it, must earn it by patient 
toil. It is above, not below him ; no moral gravitation will 
bring him unerring to its sphere. He who w^ould reach it, 
must climb up to it, as a tourist to the top of a mountain ! 
He is a hero, who, considerately regarding his splendid capa- 
cities, and his responsibility for their improvement, docs not 
stand in awe of himself, and desire with trembling, that he had 
been made less ample for reception, or had been better sup- 
plied by the gratuitous bounty of Heaven. 



MANHOOD. 181 

The pride of the natural heart leads many to presume, that 
they are what they might be, — and from them we hear rhap- 
sodies on the dignity of man. They take affront at every 
admonition which bids him cultivate the elements of high cha- 
racter, and confess themselves obnoxious to only such instruc- 
tion as assumes its considerable advancement and provides for 
its perfection. The moral dignity of man attaches not to his 
actual position, but to his privilege of surpassing it. And, for 
the lofty superstructure to which he may be raised, there 
needs not the mad confidence, which will not look whether the 
foundation be secure, but the diligent and judicious adjustment 
of those substantial forms, on which a tower of moral strength 
and beauty may be raised, whose top shall reach even to 
Heaven. 

The interest which attaches to maturity of years, when 
viewed in connexion with these waiting capabilities of man, is 
transcendent. When every instrument of the soul is seen to 
be complete, who can fail to be solicitous, whether the in- 
dwelling intelligence is ripe for their employment 1 When the 
manly form is developed in all its beauty, — strength and elas- 
ticity exuberant in every limb — life beaming in the eye — 
health flushing on the cheek — expansion and loftiness en- 
nobling the brow, — who can suppress the inquiry, is there a 
tenant within worthy of this mansion ? — a soul which can 
occupy and fill these rare apartments ? Or is there here some 
little miserly spirit, crouching in a dim corner, proud of the 
splendour of its abode, which it has not the magnanimity to 
appreciate, nor the intelligence to use ? 

lie, for whom nature is building such a soul-palace, should 
be diligent in tlie culture of those moral and mental attributes 

16 



182 MANHOOD. 

which nature will not bestow, lest when the structure is com- 
pleted, it serve no better purpose than to foster at once his 
own vanity, and draw upon him the scorn of others. For the 
wind which swells a bubble, while it attracts attention to the 
greatness of the circumference, illustrates the thinness and 
transparency of the surface, and betrays the nothingness that 
is within. 

A character formed on the true model, is now present to my 
thoughts. He passed his youth amid mountain scenery, and 
inhaled strong influences from its racy breezes. The grand 
and beautiful of nature transcribed itself upon his soul as the 
pendent willows reappear in the subjacent waters. Manual 
industry invigorated his youth, and rural friendships imbued 
the elements of his mind with true simplicity. The endow- 
ments of literary education came like the carvings which are 
brought to grace a magnificent building after the broad foun- 
dations were settled, and the substantial forms of the super- 
structure compacted. Nothing false or factitious could be 
insinuated between its nicely-adjusted parts. 

His mind grappled with knowledge and took it into posses- 
sion with masterly power, for its vigour was unworn, and 
grown restive for exercise. 

Seclusion could not be held by such a character. He 
was called forth to enrich the many with his salubrious in- 
fluences. 

He stands in the high places of society, athletic as an Indian 
chief; with an intellect of transcendent power, enriched with 
varied learning; with a heart great as the greatest, replete 
with all noble sentiments, and kindly sympathies ; and with 
manners simple, and honest as a little child's. The dignity 



MANHOOD. 183 

which consists in staid reserve, and constrained sobriety be- 
longs not to him, but only that, which conscious of mental 
purity, results unbidden from the frank display of every 
thought and emotion. 

The factitious world calls him sometimes frivolous, some- 
times absent-minded and rude. He is but playful when his 
spirit falls into that mood, and enjoys occasions for its indul- 
gence. He is sometimes absent in mind from the scene in 
which he personally stands ; but 'tis a sweet vagrancy of 
nature, in which his thought, true to its destination, wanders 
from company, but never beguiles him into loss of himself. 
They who know him best admire him most for this token of 
the simplicity and truthfulness of his mind. He is never rude, 
though he often violates the precepts of Chesterfield. He is 
never courtly, though his voice is often attuned to the kindliest 
language, and his face beaming with benignant smiles. He is 
just the child of nature, speaking and acting what he feels ; 
and always feeling as much of kindness towards his fellows 
as is consistent with the common depravity and his own high 
principle. 

I have written him the child of Nature, but, in a lofty sense, 
he is the child of grace; his "adorning is the hidden man of the 
heart." Every faculty is consecrated to God. The high cul- 
ture of his soul is the most conspicuous manifestation of his 
character. What is sanctified and spiritual in his nature, 
lends its grace and beauty to all his doings, and, like sunlight 
through the trees, which gilds every leaf and defines every 
shadow, it tells also of an unclouded sky, and a meridian sun 
above. 

If earth were peopled with such men, it would not bring 



184 MANHOOD. 

forth thorns and briers in their pathway, nor would an angel, 
with flaming sword, forbid the access of any to the tree of 
life. 

" If life were all like this to j'ou and me, 
How would it matter to be young or old ? 
Where is the privilege of youth's buoyancy, 
Could we thus turn Time's iron scythe to gold ? 
The pleasures given 
To man were all too great, and there would be 
No want of heaven. 

" Let us go forth, and resolutely dare. 

With sweat of brow, to toil our little day, — 
And if a tear fall on the task of care. 
In memory of those spring-hours past away 
Brush it not by ! — 
Our hearts to God ! to brother-men 
Aid, labour, blessing, prayer, and then 
To these a sigh !" 




;ffi [01 „ 



HUMAN POWER. 



BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 



Man, like his Eden sire, walks fresh from God, 

In panoply of majesty and power ; 

And stands upon his mount of strength supreme, 

Firm footed as the oak. The earth is his, 

For he has forced the king of beasts to crouch, and brought 

The eagle from his eyried crag, and made 

A traffic of the seas leviathan ; 

And from the mountain's stubborn breast hath torn 

Its iron heart, or traced the rich red ore 

Along its shining veins. The vales, where erst 

Free nature held her sabbath all the year. 

He fills with week-day turmoil ; and the woods 

Are bowed before him, while the quiet trees 

Are moulded into temples broad and high, 

Or hewn to build the ocean's winged arks. 

That link together far ends of the earth 

With chains of Commerce over dangerous seas. 

Man spreads the sail, and with his strong right arm 

He holds the helm against the tempest's wrath ; 

16* 



186 HUMAN POWER. 

Or when the treacherous reef is struck, he clasps 
The faintmg form and struggles to the shore. 
He wears his country's arms, and faces death 
To plant above the bulwarks of the foe 
The standard of his native land. 

Than this 
A faculty diviner still is his; 
For he hath on the walls of science stood, 
Gray walls, whose towering turrets well-nigh reach 
The prophet's dome of inspiration ; — there 
With all the book of space before him spread. 
Hath read its starry pages, and transcribed 
Its wonders for the waiting world below ! 

But man, endowed with all the powers of earth, 
The form majestic, and the strong right arm. 
With intellect to penetrate the skies, 
T' unriddle the enigma of the stars, — 
Must cast aside his dusty strength, and lay 
His little knowledge humbly by, and take 
The tender innocence which childhood wears, 
And he shall be invested with the power. 
The majesty, and wisdom of the immortals. 



SCENE IN A STUDIO. 



BY THE AUTHOR OF "WREATHS AND BRANCHES." 



A distinguished sculptor destroyed some of his finest works, that they might not fall into 
the hands of an inexorable creditor. 



Ye bring sweet balm 
To many weary ones, O Night and Sleep ! 
But there are hearts which wake to keener sorrow, 
When Nature's self is lulled to peaceful rest. 
The rural city, bathed in evening dew, 
Nov/ sweetly slept ; its myriad elms stirred not 
Their lightest branches, as they feared to wake 
The little birds whom late they rocked to sleep 
Amid their clust'ring boughs, and the pale moon 
Shone forth in brightness, — for the orbs of Heav'n 
Pale not because they look on human wo. 

'Tis midnight, yet a flick'ring torch still gleams 
Within the sculptor's studio, whose light 
Gives a new beauty to those forms of grace, 
The emanations of one master-mind. 
And called to life by his creative power. 



188 SCENE IN A STUDIO. 

The Artist grasps his chisel, but the glow 

That mantles high upon his brow is not 

The fire of new-born inspiration, 

For Prometheus' self ne'er wore a look 

Of such despairing agony. Oh, sure 

It were a glorious thing to people earth 

With thought made palpable, and chaining thus 

The lightning-fire of Heaven, bid it flash forth 

From lip and brow, instinct with majesty ! 

Yes ! Genius is a gift unparalleled. 

But guarded round with fearful swords of flame. 

That foot profane tread not the hallowed ground. 

With all his consciousness 
Of power, the Sculptor felt, that, like the slave 
Of Eastern clime whose breathing form was chained 
To ghastly death, his soul was fettered fast 
To a mere lifeless clod. Though rich in mind, 
He long had struggled for the pittance poor 
Less-gifted souls might easier win, than he 
Whose element was not this world of care. 
With what a look of wo he gazes now 
Upon that work, to which so many days 
And sleepless nights were giv'n ! Now it neared 
The image in his heart, the bright ideal, 
Which it had been the effort of his life 
To body forth, that generations yet 
To come might gaze thereon, and kindling thought 
And impulse new, to lofty virtue given, 
Immutably attest its high divinity. 



SCENE IN A STUDIO. 189 

Not to perpetuate himself, had been 
The Sculptor's aim, but to transfer the vision 
Of his soul to men whom it might bless, 
And thus discharge the high responsibility 
Which every spirit owns, that innate feels 
A revelation new from Heaven. 

Ah ! now a kindling smile lights up his eye — 

Though Genius weep, it is not quenched in tears ; — • 

Once more the Artist glories in his work, 

And quite forgets that hands, most rude, ere long 

Shall tear his idol from its secret shrine ; 

He feels again the ardour of his youth, 

And fellowship with those, whose struggling life 

Was but the prelude to the song of praise, 

That since has gushed spontaneous from each heart 

That felt their priceless worth, and mourned their fate. 

But what is this ? Has frenzy seized his brain ? 
Quick falls the mallet, not with well-aimed stroke, 
To guide the skilful chisel, and perfect 
The fair proportions. — Stay thy hand, rash man ! 
Comes there no voice from this, the beauteous child 
Of thy creative thought, which cries, " Forbear ! 
One hour of madness must not thus destroy 
The labour of thy ripened years." 

'Tis done ! The shivering marble falls around 
The wo-bewildered man, who gazes now 
With tearless eye upon that martyred one, 
Whose shapeless trunk but seems his agony 



190 SCENE IN A STUDIO. 

To mock ; yet onward recklessly he goes, 
And all the beauteous ones that he had loved — 
The Venus fair, the Manes of the ancient gods, 
The busts of heroes, and the dreamlike ones. 
With their life's fountain faintly gushing forth 
From out the stricken rock, at his command — 
All ! — all must perish ! — 
Oh ruin dire ! yet, sadder still the wreck 
Of mind, w^hich misery hath wrought. 



THE MERIDIAN OF LIFE. 

BY THE REV. WILLIAM B. SPRA&UE, D.D. 

Of all the forms of existence that come within the range of 
our senses, that which has the highest claims to our regard 
and veneration, is humanity. The world which we inhabit 
is a great and beautiful world. The bright orbs above us, 
which are for ever sweeping their courses through immensity, 
are so many glorious witnesses to the wisdom, the power, the 
majesty of the Creator: but all these worlds, with all the 
goodly furniture which they contain, are material ; they move 
in obedience to the external impulses ; the living principle does 
not pertain to them, unless it be in that humblest of all forms — 
vegetable existence. Ascending from the clods of the valley, 
we find ourselves in the animal kingdom : there are around us 
creatures innumerable, of various forms and habits, instinct 
with life, filling the several spheres and performing the several 
parts which the Creator has allotted to them ; and though the 
different tribes rise above each other by perceptible gradations, 
and though some of them possess great insthictive sagacity 
and forecast, yet the boundary between the mere animal and 



192 THE MERIDIAN OF LIFE. 

the man is so distinctly marked, that it is not easy, even by an 
effort of imagination, to confound them. It is true indeed that 
the beginning of human existence gives little more promise of 
intelligence or ability, than the commencement of mere animal 
life ; if we had no experience on the subject, v^^e should say 
that there yvs.s as much to indicate reason and greatness, and 
immortality in the bleating of the lamb, as in the crying of the 
child ; but we quickly find that the faculties of the one are 
stationary, while those of the other are progressive ; that the 
one is admirably fitted to perform its part as the creature of a 
day, while the other is endowed with a principle to whose 
developments and achievements it is impossible to assign a 
limit. There are indeed reasons enough why a man should 
think humbly of himself; — reasons growing out of his own 
self-depravation as well as of his original relative inferiority ; 
and yet there is abundant cause why he should not dishonour 
himself as a noble piece of the divine workmanship ; — why he 
should reverence his own nature in comparison even with the 
highest of the works of God that come within the field of his 
vision. 

And if humanity is the brightest form of existence that 
belongs to this lower world, the noblest stage of humanity is 
its meridian. Infancy is indeed deeply interesting both for its 
helplessness and its loveliness. Youth is full of buoyancy and 
brightness and hope ; we imagine that we see in it not only 
the embryo character of the man, but the elements of a future 
seraph or fiend. Old age too, with all its evil days and op- 
pressive burdens, is in some respects, a glorious stage of exis- 
tence ; if it awakens our sympathy, it awakens our veneration 
also ; and we often find ourselves admonished, instructed, even 
comforted by it, up to the very time that it disappears among 



THE MERIDIAN OF LIFE. 193 

the shadows of the tomb. But the period that intervenes between 
youth and old age, is emphatically the season of action — the 
working-day of life. The sun is then at its meridian ; and if 
man is not then a noble being, and does not perform a noble 
part, there is little reason to expect that there ever will be any 
record of him either on earth or in Heaven, in which he will 
have occasion to rejoice. 

It is interesting to contemplate this period in its relation to 
the one that haih preceded it. It may be considered as the 
repository of all those influences which have been exerted, of 
those impressions which have been produced, from the moment 
that the seeds of thought and feeling began to germinate. The 
forming process began while the infant was yet in the cradle. 
The accents of maternal love, were responded to in emotions, 
which, however transient in their character, still left their im- 
press upon the soul. The first objects with which the mind 
was conversant, the first lesson which it was taught, however 
little they may seem to have been heeded, have not improbably 
given to it a deep, perhaps a permanent tinge. And as child- 
hood succeeds infancy, it brings with it its influences adapted 
to a somewhat higher development of the faculties ; especially 
to the development of the social principle. The imitative 
faculty particularly is now called into exercise ; and through 
this medium the mind is acted upon by other minds with cer- 
tain and irresistible eflfects. And then, what an assemblage of 
influences are brought to bear upon the character through the 
period of youth, considered as distinct from childhood ! How 
much is accomplished for good or evil by domestic influence, 
by the intellectual and moral atmosphere which pervades the 
family of which the individual is a member ! What a varied 
and complicated instrumentality for forming the character 

17 



194 THE MERIDIAN OF LIFE. 

belongs to the whole matter of education ! How much too 
depends upon casual associations ; upon the connexions more 
or less important or enduring which a youth is likely to form ; 
upon the thousand nameless circumstances by which his lot is 
sure to be marked ! Indeed, it is not too much to say that, in 
all ordinary cases, the mind has received its decisive stamp 
before the opening of manhood ; that it has accumulated all 
those great elements of thought, feeling, action, which are to 
constitute the basis of ihe permanent character. 

Now let it be remembered, that as youth is the training sea- 
son for manhood, so mature manhood is the legitimate heir to all 
the impressions and acquisitions of youth. Whatever intellec- 
tual furniture may have been gathered — whatever moral habits, 
good or bad, may have been formed — during the earlier years, 
all, all becomes the property of the man ; and if the faculties 
have opened under benign influences, and have received a vir- 
tuous direction, manhood, in the very commencement of its 
career, is, in the best sense, rich. There may be, or there may 
not be, in its possession an abundance of this world's goods, 
but be that as it may, there is that better portion, that becomes 
incorporated with the mind itself — there is the foundation of a 
noble character — there is the pledge of an exalted destiny. 

Now let us view enlightened and virtuous manhood, in its 
direct actings, both upon itself and upon the world. The 
spirit of a man, in the circumstances which are here supposed, 
is always brightening into a better and more glorious form. 
It is subjected to a deep and constant culture; and what it has 
gained in youth, instead of satisfying its lofty aspirations, is 
only regarded as the first step in the career of true greatness. 
By vigorous and well-directed exercise, the mind becomes 
more and more acquainted with its own powers ; it learns to 



THE MERIDIAN OF LIFE. I95 

fathom depths which had once seemed to it unfathomable ; it 
discovers in itself a capacity for bold and lofty action, of 
which, in the days of its youth and feebleness, it had never 
dreamed; in a word, it gets more and more imbued with a 
sense of its own inherent dignity, and acts more and more in 
accordance with the character and will of the Creator. 

But while manhood, walking in the light of truth and duty, 
is always growing brighter in its aspirations, and stronger in 
its powers, and nobler in its whole character, let it not be for- 
gotten that it acts with a benign and powerful influence upon 
other minds ; — as the case may be, upon an entire community, 
or even upon the world. It is true, indeed, that both the 
earlier and the later stages of life have their duties, and im- 
portant duties too, devolved upon them ; and the aged particu- 
larly, are sometimes put in requisition for services of the 
highest moment — services, for which nothing short of a long 
experience could qualify them ; but after all, it remains true, 
that all the great interests of society are entrusted peculiarly 
to the keeping and direction of those in middle life. Who are 
they that stand foremost in the walks of civil influence and 
authority, who can scarcely speak in a corner, but that what 
they say takes the form of a law, and flies almost with the 
speed of a sunbeam all over the nation? Who are they that 
minister at the altar with the greatest effect; on whom the 
church relies most for edification and comfort — for spiritual 
growth and spiritual victories? Who are they that oppose 
the most effectual resistance to physical maladies; or that 
plead with best success the cause of the orphan and the 
widow; or that act with greatest efficiency in aiding the 
cause of human philanthropy, — in drying away the fountains of 
human wo ? In short, who are they on whom we rely most 



190 THE MERIDIAN OF LIFE. 

for making the world wiser and better ; for perfornning that 
intelHgent, active, merciful ministration, in which God himself 
shall co-operate for restoring our world to something like its 
primeval dignity and bliss 1 Surely, every one must answer? 
that the men who are accomplishing these great ends are 
chiefly they who have reached their maturity, but whose 
faculties have not begun to wane ; in other words, men who 
are in the full vigour and strength of manhood. They may, 
indeed, have their efficient auxiliaries from the ranks of youth 
or the ranks of age ; but the moving power rests with them ; 
in them emphatically are bound up the elements of the weal or 
the wo of the next generation. 

But middle life sustains a deeply interesting relation to the 
period that follows, as well as to the period that precedes it. 
It often happens indeed that it is, itself, the closing stage of life ; 
though there are many instances in which it is otherwise, — in 
which it is followed even by a protracted old age. But when 
this latter period comes there is usually more or less of physi- 
cal infirmity attending it ; there are cheerless and cloudy days, 
in which the faculties sometimes covet a repose which they 
cannot find ; the very grasshopper becomes a burden ; and 
everything marks the frame, the intellect, the whole man, as 
having reached the period of endurance rather than of action. 
But supposing the energies of manhood to have been consecra- 
ted to the interests of virtue, to the promotion of human hap- 
piness, manhood has laid up rich consolations for old age ; — it 
has furnished for it a treasury of grateful recollections, which 
will enable it to live out the evil days, and go home to its final 
resting-place with serenity, and even joy. Suppose the illus- 
trious Wilberforce had given the meridian of his life, the days 
of his greatest usefulness, to some frivolous employment, which 
would have either given his faculties a wrong direction, or left 



THE MERIDIAN OF LIFE. 197 

them to rust in indolent inaction ; and suppose the world had 
not been the better for his having lived in it during that period, 
what a different complexion would this circumstance have 
imparted to his last days and hours : he might indeed have 
fastened his eye in penitence upon the cross, and there might 
have found a refuge for his troubled spirit ; but there would 
have been nothing in his life, at least in the best period of it, 
upon which his eye could have reposed with one grateful emo- 
tion. As manhood is the time when the spirit is most vigorous, 
and most capable of heroic and successful effort, so it cannot 
be but that the record of what it has been and what it has 
done, will be contemplated with the utmost concern, in the 
vale of age and the yet deeper valley of death. 

It is scarcely necessary to add that a virtuous manhood 
connects itself most intimately with the rewards to be bestowed 
in a better life. For notwithstanding these rewards are be- 
stowed in virtue of a gracious constitution, yet they have re- 
spect to the amount of suffering endured, of service performed, 
in the cause of God and of his creatures. And if manhood 
makes the largest contributions to the welfare of the race, then 
surely its efforts will be crowned with a proportionably glo- 
rious reward. Ye, who are spending to little or no purpose 
these golden years of your existence, remember that this will 
tell fearfully on your eternal condition. Ye, who are spending 
them in making noble acquisitions of truth and goodness, in 
going up and down the world on errands of good-will, in using 
your various faculties for the very purpose for which they were 
given — " I say unto you, be of good cheer, for great is your 
reward in Heaven." Your faculties shall hereafter brighten 
into the vigour of a more glorious manhood, while you connect 
the future with the present in ascriptions of boundless praise. 

17* 



THE ANCIENT MAIDEN. 

I. 

Her silvery hair 

Is braided with care, 
As early her grandmother taught her ; 

And gentleness lies 

Enshrined in her eyes, 
Like moonlight in tranquilest water. 

II. 

Each year that has past 

Its shadow has cast. 
To deepen her lovely expression ; 

The lines that awhile 

Were seen in a smile, 
Now fixed, are in quiet possession. 

III. 

To one whom the tomb 

Enclosed in his bloom, 

Her early affections were given ; 



THE ANCIENT MAIDEN. 199 

She knelt by his side, 
As cahnly he died, 
In blessed assurance of Heaven. 



IV. 



Repinings were hushed ; 

The casket was crushed, — 
The humble its treasures are wearing ; 

The poor and reviled, 

The mourner and child, 
The love she had garnered are sharing. 



V. 



She cheerfully bears 

Her burden of cares. 
And smiles in her desolate dwelling ; 

Nor minds that her name 

Continues the same 
As when she was tutored in spelling. 

VI. 

The children rejoice 

To hear her sweet voice. 
And cease from their noisy commotion, 

While lisping their notes 

From innocent throats. 
They join in her evening devotion. 



200 THE ANCIENT MAIDEN. 

VII. 

The love of the Lord, 

That heavenly chord, 
In childhood with music v^^as laden ; 

Adversity's stroke 

Its melody woke. 
To cheer the decline of the maiden. 

Aria. 



THE MOTHER'S GRAVE. 



BY MRS. E. F. ELLETT. 



From the French of Lamartine. 



I. 

O'euworn with watching, wo, and hopeless care, 
A wrestler foiled that yields to dull despair. 

" In vain," I cried, " is morning's smile so bright. 
Nature with beauty cheats our wondering eyes, 
And Heaven, arrayed in gold and vermeil dyes, 

But mocks our misery with its pageant light. 

II. 

" 'Tis all illusion — all a passing dream ! 
A vision, born of Hope's deceitful gleam ; 

Man's sole reality his cureless wo ! 
This spark of life that shoots athwart our gloom, 
For one brief instant doth the soul illume, 

And straight is gone, in other breasts to glow. 



202 THE MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

III. 

" The more we look, the gloom is more profound. 
God, 'tis a phantasy — an empty sound — 

A dark abyss — where thought no shore can find ! 
And all that moves or sparkles in the ray. 
Are like the light clouds on the dusty way, 

Which the unconscious traveller leaves behind." 

IV. 

I said — and turned with envy to behold 
Those forms which but a mindless life unfold, 

Whose sleep at least no torturing vision knows ; 
On wood and rock my passing glance was thrown. 
And thus it said to brute, and stock, and stone — 

" Hail ! brethren ! I shall share your dull repose !" 

V. 

My glance, far wandering, Math the seaman's strain, 
That seeks his course across the trackless main. 

Sudden was stayed upon a lowly bed ; 
A tomb — sad prison of a cherished trust — 
Where the green turf, that hides my mother's dust, 

Grew, 'neath the tears a mourning hamlet shed. 

VI. 

There, when that angel, veiled in woman's frame, 
In God exhaled her spirit's holy flame 

As sinks the dying lamp when morn is near, 



THE MOTHER'S GRAVE, 203 

Beside the altar's shade she loved so well, 
My hands prepared her cold and narrow cell, 
To her the portal of a happier sphere ! 

VII. 

There sleeps in hope, she, whose expiring eyes 
Smiled on nny own, till death had stilled her sighs, 

And chilled that heart, of love the large abode ; 
That breast which nourished nae with tenderest care. 
Those arms that did my wayward childhood bear. 

Those lips from which my all of blessing flowed ! 

VIII. 

There sleep her sixty years of one sole thought ; 
A life with charity and goodness fraught, 

Hope, innocence, and love devoid of strife ; 
So many prayers in secret sent on high. 
Such faith in death — such deeds that should not die — 

Such virtues pledged for an immortal life ! 

IX. 

So many nights in kindly vigils spent ; 
So many alms to want and suffering lent ; 

So many tears poured forth for others' wo ; 
So many sighs breathed towards a better land — 
Such gentle patience 'neath the Chastener's hand — 

Bearing a life whose crown is not below. 



And wherefore ? That a darksome pit might hide 
The being for a mortal sphere too wide ? 
That richer foliage this base sod might kiss ? 



204 THE MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

That these death-weeds which o'er her relics wave, 
Might grow more greenly on the humble grave ? — 
A little ashes had sufficed for this ! 

XL 

No, no ! to deck three paces of the earth, 
The Maker gave not that vast spirit birth; 

That soul subhme died not with failing breath ! 
In vain I linger by this mound of gloom ; 
O Virtue ! thou art stronger than the tomb ; 

Thy aspect banishes the dusk of death ! 

XII. 

Oppressed no more — no more to fears a prey. 
Mine eyes awaited thence a heavenly day ; 

Faith, to my darkened heart, new sunlight gave. 
Happy whom God has given a friend so rare! 
Though life be hard, and Death his terrors wear, — 

Who — WHO can doubt upon a Mother's Grave 1 



A STRONG MAN NEVER CHANGES HIS MENTAL 
CHARACTERISTICS, 

OR, A CONTRAST BETWEEN THE APOSTLES PAUL AND JOHN. 
BY J. T. HEADLEY. 

There is no error more common than to erect a single 
standard by which to judge every man. Temperament and 
mental pecuUarities do not change with the moral character. 
The man of fierce and ardent nature, who loves excitement 
and danger, and enjoys the stern struggle and field of great 
risks, does not become a lamb because his moral nature is 
renovated. His best energies will pant for action as much 
as ever, but seek different objects and aim at nobler results. 
Half the prejudice and bigotry among us grows out of the 
inability, or univillingness, to allow for the peculiar tempera- 
ment or disposition of others. The world is made up of many 
varieties, and our Saviour seems to have had this fact in 
view when he chose his Apostles. As far as we know their 
characters, they were widely different, and stand as represen- 
tatives of distinct classes of men. The object of this doubt- 
less was to teach us charity. Take three of them, Peter, 
John, and Paul, (the latter afterwards chosen, but by divine 

18 



206 THE APOSTLES PAUL AND JOHN. 

direction,) and more distinct, unlike men cannot be found. 
Peter, like all Galileans, who resembled very much the Jewish 
nation in character, was rash, headlong, and sudden in his 
impulses. Such a man acts without forethought. When 
Christ appeared on the shore of the lake, Peter immediately 
jumped overboard and swam to him. On the night of the 
betrayal, when the furious rabble pressed around his Master, 
he never counted heads, but drew his sword and laid about 
him, cutting off an ear of the High Priest's servant. Such a 
man loves to wear a sword ; we venture to say he was the 
only Apostle who did. When Christ said, " All of you shall 
be offended because of me this night," Peter was the first to 
speak, declaring confidently that, though all the others might 
fail, yet he would not. Said he, " Though I should die with 
thee, yet will I not deny thee." A few hours after, under an 
equally sudden impulse, he not only denied him, but swore to 
the lie he uttered. Paul could not have done this, without 
becoming an apostate. He acted deliberately, and with fore- 
thought and decision. Peter's repentance was as sudden as 
his fault — one reproachful, mournful look, scattered the fear, 
which had mastered his integrity, to the wind, and he went 
out and wept bitterly. 

But the contrast we love to contemplate most of all, is that 
exhibited by John and Paul. In the former, sentiment and 
sympathy predominated over the intellectual powers, while the 
latter was all intellect and force. The former was a poet by 
nature — kind, generous, and full of emotion. He loved to rest 
in the Saviour's bosom and look up into his face. His was 
one of those natures which shun the storm and tumult of life, 
and are happy only when surrounded with those they love. 
Perfectly absorbed in affection for Christ, he had no other 



THE APOSTLES PAUL AND JOHN. 207 

wish but to be near him — no other joy but to drink in his 
instructions, and receive his caress. Even if he had not been 
a Christian, he would have possessed a soul of the highest 
honour, incapable of deceit and meanness. He betray, or 
deny his master ! Every faculty he possessed, revolted at the 
thought. 

No threats or torture can unwind a mother's arms from her 
child. If torn from it, she goes through danger from which 
the boldest shrink to embrace it again. So when the Roman 
soldiery and the clamorous rabble closed darkly around the 
Saviour, Mary was nearer the cross than they all, and heeded 
not their scoffs, feared not their violence. There too stood 
John by her side, rivalling even the mother in love. He for- 
got he had a life to lose — he did not even hear the taunts that 
were rained upon him, nor see the fingers of scorn that pointed 
at his tears. Christ, in the midst of his sufferings, was struck 
with this matchless love, and bade him take his place as a son 
to his afflicted mother. 

Throughout his life, he exhibits this warm and generous na- 
ture; his epistles are the outpourings of affection, — and love, 
love is his theme from first to last. Place him in what relations 
you will, and he displays the same lovely character. When 
banished to Patmos, he trod the solitary beach, lulled by the 
monotonous dash of waves at his feet, he was. placed in a 
situation to develope all the sternness and energy he possessed, 
yet he is the same submissive, trusting spirit as ever. When 
addressed by the voice from heaven, he fell on his face as a 
dead man; and when the heavens were opened on his wonder- 
ing vision, and the mysteries and glories of the inner sanc- 
tuary were revealed to his view, he stood and wept at the 
sight. In strains of sublime poetry, he pours forth his rapt 



208 THE APOSTLES PAUL AND JOHN. 

soul, which, dazzled by the effulgence around it, seems almost 
bewildered and lost. 

And when the lamp of life burned dimly, and his tremulous 
voice could hardly articulate, he still spoke of love. It is said 
he lived to be eighty years of age, and then, too feeble to 
walk, was carried into the church on men's shoulders, and, 
though scarce able to speak, would faintly murmur : " Breth- 
ren, love one another.''^ Affection was his life, and it seemed 
to him that the world could be governed by love. 

But while he was thus breathing forth his affectionate words, 
Paul was shaking Europe like a storm. Possessing the heart 
of a lion, he too could love, but with a sternness that made a 
timorous nature almost shrink from his presence. Born on 
the shores of the Mediterranean, with the ever-heaving sea 
before him, and an impenetrable barrier of mountains behind 
him, his mind early received its tendencies, and took its lofty 
bearing. 

In Jerusalem, he had scarcely completed his studies, before 
he plunged into the most exciting scenes of those times. The 
new religion, professing to have the long-promised Messiah 
for its founder, agitated the entire nation. To the proud, 
young scholar, those ignorant fishermen, disputing with the 
doctors of the law, and claiming for their religion a supe- 
riority over his own, which had been transmitted through a 
thousand generations, and been sanctioned by a thousand 
miracles and wonders, were objects of the deepest scorn. 
Filled with indignation, and panting for action, he threw him- 
self boldly into the struggle, and became foremost in the per- 
secution that followed. Arrested by no obstacles, softened by 
no suffering, he roamed the streets of Jerusalem like a fiend, 
breaking even into the retirement of the Christian's home, 



THE APOSTLES PAUL AND JOHN. 209 

dragging thence women and children, and casting them into 
prison. One of those determined men, who, once having 
made up their minds to a thing, can be turned aside by no 
danger, not even by death, he entered soul and heart into the 
work of extermination. 

Inflexible, superior to all the claims of sympathy, and mas- 
ter even of his own emotions, he, in his intellectual develop- 
ments, was more like Bonaparte than any other man in history. 
He had the same immovable will — the same utter indifference 
to human suffering, after he had once determined on his course 
— the same tireless, unconquerable energy — the same fearless- 
ness both of man's power and opinions — the same self-reliance 
and control over others. But especially were they alike in 
the union of a strong and correct judgment, with sudden im- 
pulse and rapidity of thought, and, more than all, in their 
great practical power. There are many men of strong minds 
whose force nevertheless wastes itself in reflection or in theo- 
ries. Thought may work out into language, but not in action. 
They will plan, but they cannot perform. But Paul not only 
thought better than all other men, but he could icork better. 

As, in imagination, I behold him in that long journey to 
Damascus, whither his rage was carrying him, I often wonder 
whether, at night, when, exhausted and weary, he pitched his 
tent amid the quietness of nature, he did not feel doubts and 
misgivings creep over his heart, and if that stern soul did not 
relent. As the sun stooped to his glorious rest in the heavens, 
and the evening breeze stole softly by, and perchance the note 
of the bulbul filled the moonlight with melody, it must have 
required nerves of iron to resist the soothing influences around 
him. Yet, young as he was, and thus open to the beauties of 
nature, he seemed to show no misgivings. 

18* 



210 THE APOSTLES PAUL AND JOHN. 

But the wonderful strength of his character is exhibited no 
where more strikingly, than when smitten to the earth and 
blinded by the light and voice from Heaven. When the trum- 
pet arrested the footsteps of John, on the isle of Patmos, he 
fell on his face as a dead man, and dared not stir or speak till 
encouraged by the voice from on high, saying, "Fear notP' 
But Paul, — or Saul, as he was then called, — though a perse- 
cutor and sinner, showed no symptoms of alarm or terror. His 
powerful mind at once perceived the object of this strange 
display of Divine power, and took at once its decision. He 
did not give way to exclamations of terror, or prayers for 
safety, but, master of himself and his faculties, said, " Lord, 
what wilt thou have me to do V Something was to he done, he 
well knew ; this sudden vision and voice were not sent to ter- 
rify, but to convince, and ever ready to act, he asked what he 
should do. 

The persecutor became the persecuted, and the proud student, 
the humble, despised disciple of Jesus of Nazareth, and leaving 
the halls of learning, and companionship of dignitaries, he cast 
his lot in with the fishermen. 

This was a great change, and religion effected it all, yet it 
could not alter his mental characteristics. He was just as 
determined, and resolute, and fearless, as ever. 

He entered Jerusalem and made the Sanhedrim shake with 
his eloquence. Cast out of the city, he started for his native 
city — for the home of his boyhood — his father's house — his 
kindred and friends. Thence to Antioch and Cyprus, along the 
coast of Syria to Greece and Rome, — over the known world he 
went like a blazing comet, waking up the nations of the earth. 
John in giving an account of the revelations made to him, 
declares that he wept at the sight. Paul, in his calm, self-col- 



THE APOSTLES PAUL AND JOHN. 211 

lected manner, when speaking of the heavens opened to his 
view, says simply, that he saw things which were not lawful 
for man to utter. From the top of Mars Hill, with the gor- 
geous city at his feet, and the Acropolis and Parthenon behind 
him, — on the deck of his shattered vessel, and in the gloomy 
walls of a prison — he speaks in the same calm, determined tone. 
Deterred by no danger — awed by no presence, and shrinking 
from no contest, he moves before us like some grand embodi- 
ment of power. 

His natural fierceness often breaks forth in spite of his good- 
ness. He quarrelled with Peter, and afterwards with Barna- 
bas, because he insisted that Mark should accompany them in 
their visit to the churches. But on a former occasion Mark 
had deserted him, and he would not have him along again. 
Stern and decided himself, he wished no one with him who 
would blench when the storm blew loudest, and so he and Bar- 
nabas separated. Paul had rather go alone than have ten 
thousand by his side if they possessed fearful hearts. 

So when the High Priest ordered him to be smitten, he 
turned like a lion upon him and thundered in his astonished 
ear, " God shall smite, thee, thou whited wall!" 

He would not submit to wrong unless made legal by the 
civil power, and then, he would die without a murmur. When 
his enemies who had imprisoned him illegally found he was a 
Roman citizen, they in alarm sent word to the jailor to release 
him. But Paul would not stir ; " They have seized me wrong- 
fully," said he, " and now let them come themselves and take 
me out publicly." He was stern but not proud, for he said, 
'' I am the least of the saints, not fit to be called an Apostle." 
Bold, but never uncourteous — untiring, undismayed, and never 
cast down — love to God and man controlled all his acts. A 



313 'I' u K A r () sTi, r. s rvi'i, a n p .1 oil n. 

triuM' lu-;u"t iir\rr luMt in a luinian l)osi>m. What to him was 
Avrahh ! \\ hat iUc siniK-s ov {'vow us ot thr uroal. ami thiMriiin\ph 
Ot liu-tuMis! With a uithliM' aim. rnlhusiastir in a worthiiu" 
causo, sustaiui'il by a stii>ii5.\i>r st)iil. \\c rxchiimril, " I i^/ort/ in 
the cross." The sinHMiiii;; \\H>rUl shiMiii"il in sri>ni. '• Tho iToss, 
the cross!" (i> si^nily \\\c ignominious ili\ith ot" his INlastcr. 
'• The cross, the cross .'" ho oohooil hack." in tonos (>t" inoroasoil 
volumo anil powor, till tho t-nds ot" tho earth oaiija;ht iho joytul 
somul." 'riu> iiniltn! \vi>rltl oonKl \\o\ hrini;; a blush to his ohook 
or tiiwiditv to his o\i>. \\c roulil slautl aloiio anvid an apos- 
tato raoo and iloly tlu> t'nry ot" kin;;s anil prinros. ('aim, dii;-- 
nilii^il anil iosi>l\ od. hi' took tho palhot duty, with an nnt'altorinu; 
Stop. Wo malioo ot' his loos oould dolor him tVom lahourin»;" 
for thoir wolt'aro 110 insult jirovont his piayor in thoir bohali" — 
ni> wrongs hoapinl on his inuoocMU hoad. koop l>aok his i'orgivo- 
noss. 

One oanni>t point to a siin!;lo spot in l\is wholo oaroor 
whoro ho lost his solt'-possossiou, or gavi^ way to disoini- 
ranvmont or toar. An iron luan in Ins natural oharaoto- 
ristios, lio was novortholi^ss humblo. mi>i>k, kind, and t'or- 
giving. And thou his doath. how indosoribablN' sul>limo! 
IJonaparto, ilyiui;- in tho midst ot' a storm, with llu' last 
wonls that I'soapod his lips a martial oommaud, ami his 
spirit, as it passi^l to its oiornal homo, watoliiui;- in iis doli- 
rium {\\c i-unont ot' a hoavy li_i;hl, is a siohi that awos and 
starllos u^;. r>ut bohold raul. also a war-worn \ofoian. bat- 
toii^l with n\any a soar, though in spiritual w a rl'ari'- look- 
ing baok not with romorso but joy not i'linuin<;- to tho 
earth, but anxious to ilopart. 1 li\ir his oalm. simouo \oioo, 
ringing abo\o tho storms and oomniotions oi' \\[c : "I am 
now rcadi/ to he ojIcrciL ami the time 0/ mi/ departure is at 



TllF. A I' OS 'I' I, I'', W I'AIIL AND JOHN. ^13 

hmid. I havn f<»i!>'/it a i>'<i<i</ //i,'///, / hani; finished my course, — 
iJurc is /iiid up for inc. <i croirn of ri<j;li icons iic.as.'''' 

'I'lms p.'isscd iiw;iy lliis jiuworfiil iiiiiii. I liiivt! spoken hut. 
litlli! of Ins nioi.il cliMriiclcM', of liis liiilli, or r(!li,i.i,io(is hs'idi- 
ings, but (ioiifinud inyscli' dnclly lo llio.so nuluriil linils wliicli 
bcloni^cd lo liirri as a (nan, indcpiindenl of llial pcculiiif power 
and ;^rac,(i i';Iv(!n Iiiin l)y (iod. Il<;ni(;, I li;iv(! lr(jal«;d iiirri 
wiUi a laniiliiirily vvliirh nii;j;lil, S(;(;hi iinwist;, had I spoken of 
hitn as an inspired jlpnslJc. I wished lo sliow how widely 
aparl in their eharacturs niun CKjually .u;ood may he. 



THE CHILDLESS WIDOW. 

I. 

Ouu pastor left his cheerful hearth, 

Where the fire was burning bright, 
To bid me bless the Hand that had 

On mine put out the light ; 
He told me it was wrong to weep, 

And bade me dry mine eyes. 
The smoke yet rising from the place 

Of my last sacrifice. 

11. 

A fair young mother, full of joy, — 

Life's journey just begun, — 
Looked in upon my loneliness, 

To say, " Thy will be done !" 
She told the widow of threescore 

To bow and kiss the rod, 
Which had beaten her with many stripes, 

Because it was of God. 



THE CHILDLESS WIDOW. 215 



III. 



The rich man gave me of his gold, 

And told me it would heal 
The deepest and the sorest wound 

That woman's breast could feel ; 
Alas ! my bosom's yearning void 

No gift of his can fill ; 
The mother's heart, her jewels lost, 

Is poor and empty still. 

IV. 

The young and hopeful came to me, 

And bade me cease to sigh ; — 
To look for brighter days to come, 

And leave the days gone by. 
They said this world was very fair. 

And darkest clouds were given 
Only to make more beautiful 

The clear blue of the heaven. 

V. 

God help me in my wretchedness. 

Lest sorrow shut my heart 
From all who have not yet known grief. 

Nor felt affliction's dart ; 
But send not those who never lost 

A solace or a stay. 
To tell me, 'tis His right who gives, 

To take His own away. 



216 THE CHILDLESS WIDOW. 

VI. 

With her youngest born about her neck, 

Her eldest at her knee, 
That happy mother cannot feel 

For a childless one like me ; 
With her first young love to lean upon. 

His true heart all her own, 
She cannot mourn with the bereaved, 

Left desolate, alone ! 

VII. 

With his children all around him, 

And her voice in his ear, — 
Which Time has only made more soft, 

And more serenely clear ; — 
Our Pastor cannot realize 

The widow's lonely lot, 
Whose mate is taken from her side. 

Whose little ones are not. 

VIII. 

I would not have earth's joyful ones 

Less happy or less glad, 
' Nor fetter down the light of heart. 

Because my own is sad ; 
But when my heavenly Father's face 

In wrath to me is shown, 
With Him, who knoweth all my need, 

I would be left alone. 

Elizabeth. 



THE AGED PENITENT. 

For centuries the Alpine rock will bear 

The wintry snows, yet fall at last beneath 

A single flake, — so, sixty years unmoved 

He heard the eloquence of gifted men ; 

Yet now the words a child had lisped, had bowed 

His spirit to the dust. She leaned upon 

The Book, which rested on his knee, the while 

Her dimpled finger pointed to the page 

Where Jesus on the Cross was touchingly 

Portrayed. 

" Dear grandpapa, and did he die 
For us ?" with earnestness she said, and gazed 
With dewy eyes upon his troubled face. 
He paused to stay the tide which sudden gushed 
From out the hidden fount the child had oped, 
And then, with solemn tenderness, replied ; — 
" He died for us, and may we live for Him." 
As human hands may vainly sweep across 
19 



218 THE AGED PENITENT. 

^iolian chords, from which the zephyrs wake 
The sweetest music, Earth had from his soul 
But discord brought ; — the Spirit o'er it swept, 
And melody arose ; the angels ceased their songs 
To catch the sound, then struck their golden harps 
In unison, and filled the courts of Heaven 
With glad rejoicings. 

S. S. T. 



HAPPINESS IN A HOVEL. 



" At the lower extremity of a steep and rugged lane, was seen an obscure and melancholy 
hovel. Within, the room was dark and dirty ; there was nothing on the walls but the bare 
beams, ill joined to exclude the weather. 

" There sat a figure, such as the pencil well might choose for the portrait of wretchedness. 
Q.uite gray, and very old, and scarcely clothed, a woman was seen sitting by the fire-place. 
Some remark being made on the wretchedness of her dwelling, her stern features almost re- 
laxed into a smile, and she said, she did not think it so ; and wished us all as happy as her- 
self. 

" ' And you sit here all day, in pain and unable to move : are not the days long V 

" ' How can they be long ? Is not He with me ? Is it not all up — up V an expression she 
frequently made use of to describe the joyful elevation of her mind." 

Caroline Fry. 



I. 

Did visions of Heaven 
Gleam in on thy sight ? 

Came the presence of angels 
In raiments of white ? 

II. 

Did they point through the vista, 
The clouds and the gloom, 

To a mansion all holy, 

Thine own prepared home 1 



220 HAPPINESS IN A HOVEL. 

III. 

Did the portals of Heaven— 
The pearl-gates — unfold ? 

Trod thine unfettered spirit 
Those streets of pure gold ? 

IV. 

Though Earth's cup of gladness 
Ne'er sparkled for thee, 

Yet a song of thanksffivino: 
Rose fervent and free. 

V. 

No earthly-formed barrier 
Rose round thee, to bar 

One ray of the beauty 
Of Bethlehem's star. 

VI. 

Thou dweller so lonely, 
Did Heavenly Love 

Send a pinion all holy 
Which bore thee above ? 

VII. 

The feathers of silver — 

The wrings tipped with gold — 

They who came but to pity, 
Might never behold. 



HAPPINESS IN A HOVEL. 221 

VIII. 

From whence came the " white-robed ?" 

They passed into bliss, 
Through dimness and darkness, 

And shadows hke this ! 

N. 



19* 



THE GREAT ENIGMA. 

BY THE KEV. JOHN WILLIAMS. 

I SUPPOSE this name may not improperly be applied to one 
of the mysteries of Life, which only the Christian Faith ex- 
plains : the existence namely, of what we call good and evil, 
so indiscriminately among men, and so entirely without any 
regard to the excellence or worthlessness of their characters. 
None of course but a Christian Moralist can venture to write 
at all upon this perplexing subject. And even among them 
there are differences. St. Augustine in his noble treatise on 
the City of God, has adventured a lofty view of the matter, 
which furnishes the groundwork of the following lines. Indeed 
they are little more than a paraphrase of his deep and search- 
ing words. 

I. 

" He maketh His sun to rise on the evil, and on the good: and sendeth rain on the just, and 
on the unjust'." 

I. 

Why fails thy heart, as though the Lord did fail, 
Since good and ill live mingled here below ? 

Nor sin does always earthly wo entail, 
Nor to the good, does joy unceasing flow. 



THE GREAT ENIGMA. 223 



Measure not God in such unreal wise, 

Nor mete thyself by things which fade and die ; 

Evil and good oft wear each other's guise, 

Yet ne'er can cheat faith's trained and searching eye. 

III. 

In weal, the good are not lift up to pride. 
Nor to the dust can wo their spirits bring ; 

While to the evil, let what may betide, 

From weal or wo, due punishment shall spring. 

IV. 

And well that all these issues are not here 
Made clear and palpable to mortal sense ; 

If all were punished, where were judgment's fear 1 
If none, where then were faith in Providence ? 



And if no earthly good to prayer were given. 
Who but would cry God had it not to give ? 

Were none withheld, with eyes turned back from heaven. 
Grasping and greedy earthlings we should live. 



Not here the difference lies. All have their cross ; 

The suffering one, and yet the sufferers, twain ; 
One fire makes pure the gold, and melts the dross, 

One wind blows off the chaff, and clears the grain. 



224 THE GREAT ENIGMA. 



Then wonder not that God to all has given 
Earth's goods and ills alike : but ponder well, 

How the same lot that trains the Saint for heaven, 
Can make the sinner but more meet for hell. 

11. 

"Great are the troubles of the righteous." 
I. 

Yet are the righteous troubled ! So God's law 
Doth order, for that no man sinneth not ; 

And sin must e'er in train some evil draw ; 
Lest man grow bold, and judgment be forgot. 

11. 

Nor lives the soul that loves not life too well. 
Too closely clinging to the loved on earth : 

Nor less than suiFering can undo the spell. 
Whose magic e'en outlasts the second birth. 



And who lest foes his peace should rudely break. 
But sometimes unrebuked leaves sin to reign 1 

And shall not God the slumberer's heart awake, 
By stern but wholesome ministries of pain ? 

IV. 

Or how can he be proved and tried in love, 
Who has not trod the way of Christ his king? 



THE GREAT ENIGMA. 225 

How fare in pilgrim-weeds to homes above, 
Save by the lowly paths of suffering ? 



Then, Christian ! think not here at ease to dwell ; 

Dream not of joy unheralded by wo ; 
But knov; that God shall full deliverance give, 

Though seven times heated shall the furnace glow ! 



RETROSPECTION. 



BY O. E. D. 



It is the prerogative and business of mankind, as compared 
with beings of a lower order, to regard the past and the future 
as well as the present. The strength and controlling influence 
of this habit, make a part of the distinction of all cultivated 
and thoughtful minds, but it enters more or less into every 
man's common life. We were not made to live in the present 
only. We have instincts that look before and behind. As 
our senses take in what is now about us, and consciousness 
relates to what is now within us, so memory turns to what 
has been, and hope to what shall be, whether without or 
within. We attempt to create the future and to renew the past, 
never wholly content with the present, except as the transition 
from the one to the other. This we do apart from any calcu- 
lation of necessity or advantage, according to laws of our 
being, from which we cannot quite escape if we would. The 
faculties of the mind, like bodily senses and limbs, will not lie 
inactive while there is life. They are not powers merely, but 
propensities or impulses, which must in some measure do their 
appropriate work. 



RETROSPECTION. 227 

If we think of human hfe, or the successive circumstances 
of our being, that occupation of our thoughts, which we 
call Retrospection, is seen to be unavoidable. As we live 
on from year to year, the materials on which memory is 
to act are accumulating. According to the trite saying, we 
are ever changing with a changing world. Things grow and 
decay, events come and go, about us. We ourselves keep 
moving through the scenery of life. New prospects open, old 
prospects become present sights, scarcely recognised as the 
same, and then are seen with new differences in the distance 
behind us. The lights and shades shift around us " from 
morn till noon — from noon to dewy eve." Our own vision 
changes not less than its objects. Thus our station comes 
to be no longer where it once was, at the outset of our inter- 
minable path, but somewhere in the broad field of time, where 
our view is divided between the region we have travelled over 
and that which lies indefinable and obscure before us. 

In such a condition, memory will do its work, taking hold 
of its objects as time multiplies their number and bearings. 
There may be enough to call forth its utmost, intensest activity. 
There are those whose lives, even before middle age, seem to 
have anticipated more than the common vicissitudes of the 
world, and such persons easily lose sight of the present, and 
scarcely care for the future, in the-, absorbing contemplation of 
the past. But only to live on, from one stage to another, to 
become a common man with the common experience of youth 
and childhood, is enough to feed remembrance. We have all 
been sowing seeds, whether of joy or grief, or of both, which 
now in this way if in no other, we are reaping. The past 
is something which the mind keeps hold of, and will not 
let go. We have not the prerogative of utter forgetfulness 



228 RETROSPECTION. 

even if it should seem desirable. The places that have known 
us may know us no more, yet, whether they were gardens and 
vineyards, or wildernesses and wastes, while we live, our 
thoughts will return to them, and so we must visit them again. 
In this sense, as well as another, " it is not all of life to live." 

Something of melancholy regret is commonly inseparable 
from the review of life. Here, as in numberless instances, 
mankind hardly appreciate the difference nor yet the resem- 
blance among themselves. Since one sets out in life on the 
summit-level of all external advantages, another at the lowest 
point, and either may " hold his own," or take the other's 
place; while some, perhaps the most favoured of all, may 
keep the middle course, in which it was their lot to set out ; 
how various the materials in store for their several reviews ! 
From time to time, all are looking back, exulting in their gain, 
or sighing over their loss. Yet a melancholy shade steals 
over their brightest review, as we fain believe also that the 
darkest is not without some relief. He whose origin is hardly 
discoverable, except by himself, is pleased to remember the 
obscurity, ignorance, poverty, and various adversity, from 
which he has steadily risen to the high places of society ; but 
notwithstanding all that is gained, is nothing lost ? He cannot 
fathom the sorrow of such as have felt storm after storm burst 
over their heads, and are left to mourn for the rich treasures 
that were once the freight of their life ; and still less the grief 
and shame of those who have fallen into the depths of crime, 
as well as of improvidence. Yet, amidst all his prosperity, 
he recalls enjoyments past and advantages forfeited, for which 
he seems to find no equivalent. If we say that we are hap- 
pier now than at any former period, still we must allow that 
we then had advantages and enjoyments which might further 



RETROSPECTION. 229 

enrich our present store. We see plainly why it is that recol- 
lection becomes intensely painful to those whose course is 
clouded by crime or only by misfortune ; but why is it that 
there is at least an element of melancholy in every man's re- 
membrance of the past ? 

This fact of itself casts a shade over the review of life — 
that there is for us a Past; that the track of years should have 
been thus far travelled over, instead of lying still before us ; 
that this measure of a life, not too long at best, is already 
quite spent ; that if it could all be lived again, it would be so 
much added to what yet remains. Then there is the more 
affecting consideration, that the materials or subjects of such 
recollections belong mainly to early years. The time remem- 
bered, had the freshness of our spring-time, the dew of our 
morning. All that makes childhood happy and lovely, the 
simplicity of heart and buoyancy of spirit, the unworn sensi- 
bilities that render the mere sense of existence pleasurable, 
unconscious health, freedom from care, implicit reliance on 
parental providence, unsuspecting union of heart with heart 
under the shelter of home ; all these things we remember, and 
for these the world can afterwards afford no substitute that 
shall make us forget them. In a moment, our thoughts fly 
back to the place we first called home ; we hear a mother's or 
a sister's voice again; we, look up reverently to a father's eye; 
we recognise all the faces and forms that then encircled us ; 
we gather to the same table, lie down in the same chamber, 
and go forth to daily sports in the well-known walks and 
shades. We are sure that we were happy in those days, and 
not the less so because then unconscious of any peculiar hap- 
piness ; and we are sure that whatever may be our present 
store, that treasure cannot be ours again. But this is not all. 

20 



230 RETROSPECTION. 

A part of that early enjoyment grew out of our ignorant and 
untried state. Since that time, we have necessarily become 
disciples in that department, of which it may be truly said, 
that " he that increaseth knowledge, increaseth sorrow." Ac- 
quaintance with the world shows us that it is indeed a fallen 
world. By painful contact with the human heart, we find it 
to be as imperfect and prone to evil as the Scriptures taught 
us to suppose. Melancholy, indeed, it is to learn, by trial, the 
selfishness, malignity, insincerity, and earthliness of mankind. 
While learning this lesson concerning others, have we not 
learned it of ourselves also, and from time to time furnished 
new reasons for the same painful conviction ? Childhood, 
though not by any means a sinless state, as some fondly re- 
present it, is yet, in comparison with after life, the season of 
innocence. Let a man of the world remember what he was 
before his judgment was perverted and his affections were 
spoiled or withered, when passion had not consumed his heart 
and excesses had not seared his conscience, and then let him 
turn to his present self, if he can, without a melancholy con- 
viction of his degeneracy. Even spiritual renovation does not 
utterly extinguish all the unhallowed fires that have before 
been kindled in the soul. How many evil tendencies, how 
many pernicious habits of thought and feeling, still cling to the 
Christian disciple, like shreds of a cast-off garment which he 
wore too long. Moral evil accumulates with years, increasing 
burdens on the memory. Its stain easily spreads over the 
whole man. His spiritual enemies, when they have been long 
in possession of him, tyrannize the more dreadfully, and even 
if vanquished, they persist in the more obstinate struggle for 
their old ascendency. On the other hand, a child is hardly 
conscious of even those seeds of evil that are already germi- 



RETROSPECTION. 231 

nating in his own mind. Their development goes on, often 
with startling rapidity, till it can be no longer hidden from 
himself nor mistaken, and though it be checked and counter- 
acted by the most favourable domestic and religious influences, 
he cannot become a man without some painful acquisitions of 
self-knowledge. After such experience, he is compelled some- 
times not only to reproach himself for his delinquencies, but to 
think of his early days as on the whole his best days. Thus 
it is, that apart from the calamitous changes which leave 
some men broken-hearted mourners over prosperity lost, but 
never to be forgotten, we all find something of melancholy 
regret inseparable from the review of life. 

Along with such recollections, a good man often finds in his 
own history another and a peculiar occasion for regret. As 
a spiritual being, who has begun to live according to his con- 
science and the divine testimonies, he not only anticipates for 
himself hereafter a satisfaction which outward and sensible 
things alone cannot give, but already experiences in some 
degree a kind of enjoyment, which corresponds to what he is 
expecting. This too, is at times impaired, and even wholly 
suspended, if not ultimately lost. He recalls, not without self- 
reproach, the more prosperous seasons in his religious history. 
And not unfrequently the two kinds of adversity — the one 
relating to the body, the other to the soul — come together, 
each making the other felt the more acutely. Living with 
higher aims and habits of deeper reflection than common 
men, he has learned more of his own heart, and such know- 
ledge of itself leads to an unpleasant comparison between the 
earlier stages of his Christian life and the present. His former 
faith in the promises of God, and delight in all His testimonies, 
the satisfaction he once found in prayer, his cheerfulness in all 



232 RETROSPECTION. 

religious duties, his complacency in Christian ordinances and 
fellowship and efforts, his peace of conscience, and serene 
hope of usefulness and of heaven, — these were the treasures 
of his soul, but where are they now ? 

Let us remind ourselves, however, that mere regret in view 
of the past is unreasonable. It is not in our power always to 
forget lost good, nor would it be desirable ; but we may render 
such recollections less painful than they often are, and better 
than a melancholy pleasure, by subjecting them to a wise 
regard for our present and future advantage. Regret alone is 
unreasonable. It puts a false estimate on the past. Memory, 
like hope, is commonly delusive. The past, though clearly 
remembered, like the future when most clearly anticipated, is 
but partially considered. Its pleasures are vividly recalled, 
while its pains are forgotten. The evils we then felt have faded 
from our view, while its enjoyments are in some degree exagge- 
rated. The complaints once made are forgotten ; but they are 
really transferred to our existing condition. That must be a 
mistaken estimate of good and evil which makes men always 
dissatisfied with the present, because they are disconsolate for 
the past or sanguine for the future. Such discontent, in con- 
nexion with hope, is expressed in the saying, " Man never is, 
but always to be, blest." He is not less unreasonable, if he 
never is, but always has been, blest. That is a loose reckon- 
ing which makes happiness past, always greater than present 
happiness. If the past could be restored, it would not be 
what we imagine; but even if our estimate were just, every 
longinof is here ineffectual. Tears cannot revive the faded 
flowers of past years. Others may spring up, but these have 
no resurrection. In the meantime, regret alone is worse than 
unavailing. It disqualifies us for the successful discharge of 



RETROSPECTION. 233 

our present duties. This hour is overlooked in contemplation 
of the past, and its peculiar blessings are not adequately 
sought. Idle wishes enervate the spirit. Discontent takes 
the place of a calm and thankful industry. No loss is re- 
paired, no enterprise is attempted, no new^ advantage is se- 
cured. The unhappy man who has fallen into this condition, 
comes to look only with a discoloured eye on the present hap- 
piness of others. In a misanthropic, owlish singularity, he 
keeps himself aloof from their sanguine enterprises and expec- 
tations. The most cheerful auspices he darkens by his fore- 
bodings. It is well if he has not to struggle also with a 
secret disaffection towards the providence of God. 

But such a faculty is not given to us without a reason : it 
must be capable of a salutary use. We are made to remem- 
ber what we have been, and done, and enjoyed or suffered, not 
that it may awaken fruitless or mischievous regrets, any more 
than to nourish pride and presumption ; but that the past may 
qualify us for the present and the future. It may afford us 
two kinds of instruction. 

We may learn something of the providence of God. Our 
course has been under His eye, our circumstances have been 
ordered by His will. If we have ever known prosperity, 
though now it is past beyond recovery, yet it has been ours, 
and let us mark it as His bounty. If we have known calamity, 
it has fallen, and not the less if heavily, by His permission : let 
us mark it, therefore, as His chastisement. We shall need 
severer corrections if we fail to notice those He has already 
administered, and we turn His very kindness against ourselves, 
if w^e do not thank Him for its past displays. Let us mark His 
hand supporting, defending, leading us hitherto, and restraining 
us also, when but for such restraint we had injured or even de- 

20* 



234 RETROSPECTION. 

stroyed ourselves. In the temper of His inspired servants, let 
us adore Him w^ho has " not rewarded us accordins: to our 
iniquities," but borne with and cared for us in unmerited kind- 
ness to this hour. Whatever may be our present circum- 
stances, the thought of the past should suffice to prompt the 
grateful inquiry, " What shall I render unto the Lord for all 
His benefits toward me ?" 

While we study the providence of God, let us mark also 
our own errors and sins, that we may guard ourselves 
and others against the like hereafter. We are more im- 
partial observers of what we have been than of what we 
are; and, if we are willing to learn the lesson, our own 
recollections will show us not only something of our gene- 
ral imperfection, but the more prominent deformities of our 
hearts and lives. It is our own fault if we do not thus become 
acquainted with our delinquencies and our wants. To know 
our faults, in order that we may confess them and repent of 
them before God ; to know our chief infirmities, that we may 
avail ourselves of every proffered aid against them ; to know 
our mistakes, that we may rectify them ; to know clearly, as 
we may by experience, all our deficiencies, that they may be 
henceforth supplied, — this surely is a part of practical wisdom, 
and such wisdom we may gather from the past. 

Every retrospect of life may suggest to us the great fact so 
solemnly presented in the word of inspiration, that we are 
continually preparing materials for our own subsequent re- 
view. " Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap ;" 
and, in more senses than one, human life speedily confirms the 
declaration. Time wasted, talents misapplied or disused, ad- 
vantages forfeited, influence perverted, — these things, when 
they come to be remembered, not only overshadow the mind 
with a gloomy sense of loss, but oppress the heart with the 



RETROSPECTION. 235 

conviction of folly, ingratitude, and wilfulness. Conscience 
pronounces a clearer judgment on the past than on the pre- 
sent. When the present shall be added to the past, its negli- 
gences and abuses will aggravate the burden before resting on 
the memory. Especially we would have our young readers 
consider, that they will afterwards review this present period 
of their lives, and that it depends on their use of it whether the 
remembrance will give them anything but grief and shame. 
The pleasantest thing for you to remember in after life, will be 
your doing your duty and following the Saviour now. 

The day of judgment, revealed in the Sacred Scriptures, 
will be a season of retrospection. Every faculty possessed 
in this life, and every advantage here put within our reach, 
will be recollected, along with our treatment of them. All 
men will be compelled to acknowledge the whole bounty 
that God has bestowed on them in this world, and not the 
less if they shall have forgotten or abused it. They will 
read the account of His dealings with them, whatever may 
be their answer. Above all other good, every man will re- 
member his opportunities of serving his Maker, and of pre- 
paring himself and others for immortality. We shall then 
review not only the numberless blessings of the Divine Provi- 
dence, but the offered grace of the Gospel. Every means of 
spiritual improvement, the Bible, the Sabbath, the house of 
prayer. Christian friends, the persuasions of the Divine Spirit 
in the soul, will be past good remembered. And through all 
these means the Saviour of sinners will be seen, as received or 
rejected by ourselves, while we shall answer to Him as our 
Judge. For that review let every other be preparatory ; and 
when the mirror of our life shall then be fairly held before us, 
may we meet the reflection it will give, without " confusion of 
face." 



OLD AGE. 



BY THE EDITOR. 



How does the startled heart of youth revolt at the bare 
mention of Old Age ! 

Why should it thus revolt 1 When man has garnered up 
the fruits of knowledge and experience, and dotted his path- 
way with good deeds, which still shed their starry light around 
him, his last days may be his best days — a quiet resting-place 
— a hill-top between Time and Eternity, where he may set 
up a solemn and grateful memorial, bearing the inscription, 
" Hitherto the Lord hath helped me." 

From this eminence, he sees the ladder which reaches from 
Earth to Heaven, and the angels upon it are his own loved 
ones, who have gone a little while before him to that blessed 
world. Their sweet, familiar smiles give him the assurance 
that he will be no stranger there. Some among them, guided 
his youthful footsteps in the paths of wisdom and virtue ; 
others were led by his example into the " narrow way" 
which has terminated in that holy home. 

The world where he is required to remain a little longer, is 
God's beautiful world. For the gray pilgrim, there are still 




LP A G 1. 



OLD AGE. 237 

oases, bright with Hving waters, and cool with refreshing 
shade. He has the chart of inspiration to guide him safely to 
the end of his pilgrimage. God " giveth his beloved sleep," 
and there are " songs in the night," for those who watch for 
the dawn. 

My thoughts revert to one who was so lovely in her " age's 
lateness," as almost to reconcile the gayest in the heyday of 
life to that dreaded period, could they then be like — grand- 
mother. 

Though time had furrowed her cheek, blanched her soft, 
glossy hair, and dimmed the lustre of her dark eye, there was 
still beauty in her countenance — the serene beauty of the soul, 
shining through the decaying tenement. 

Illness had, for many years, given her a peculiar claim 
upon the care and tenderness of her family, but after life's 
allotted term of threescore and ten, health smiled upon ten 
other added years. The sorrows which her Heavenly Father 
deemed essential for her discipline, had nearly passed away ; 
a rainbow brightly spanned the retreating clouds, and she 
rejoiced in that token of His covenant, assuring her of the 
rising of the Sun of Righteousness — a glorious immortality. 

The law of kindness was ever on her lips, springing sponta- 
neous from the law of her life. Love was that law, and its 
outward manifestation, kindness, was exhibited towards every 
living thing which came in her daily pathway. 

Her affection for children was a well-spring of delight, un- 
chilled by the frosts of age, and their warm, young hearts re- 
sponded to this affection. She entered into their guileless 
sports with interest, and aided ' the little ones who clustered 
around her in all their innocent amusements. As the boy 
said, when invited to see some fine spectacle, that " he could 



238 OLD AGE. 

not half see without grandfather," so her httle visiters could 
not half play, without the approving smile of their grand- 
mother. The devoted love of these grandchildren, neither 
absence, distance, nor intercourse with the world, ever 
abated. On their return home, the first thought was of the 
parental roof — the almost simultaneous one, of the beloved old 
mansion of their venerated grandmother. 

To the poor, the mourner, and the widow, she was the true 
and sympathizing friend. Her simple, unpretending kindness 
won its way to the grieved and over-burdened heart. Bad 
indeed must have been that heart which did not render to her 
the tribute of gratitude. Even her rebukes were so tempered 
with kindness, that they conveyed a healing balm for the 
wounds they inflicted. 

Next to her kindness, humility was the leading trait in her 
saint-like character. The " troops of friends," who gathered 
around her old age, were of all classes in society. Though her- 
self, in every sense, a lady, she seemed, as life was drawing to- 
wards its close, to forget all merely conventional, worldly dis- 
tinctions. In obedience to the injunction of her Divine Master, 
she called in the poor of God's household, to partake with her in 
the bounties which He had dispensed to her. Even her neat but 
plain attire presented no strong contrast with the more humble 
garb of those who thus sat at her hospitable table. No conde- 
scension of manner on her part, ever aroused the natural, sinful 
pride of the human heart. This sweet humility was blended 
with a meekness so genuine, that even the passionate became 
gentle in her presence. It was said of her truly " she never 
had an enemy." 

Her cheerfulness was greatly promoted throughout her long 
life, by her love for flowers. During the very last year of her 



OLD AGE. 239 

life, she spent many hours of healthful recreation in her garden. 
The particular flowers which she had loved in youth were still 
her favourites, fondly cherished in her declining years. Her 
petted roses, gilly-flowers, and geraniums were renewed each 
year — for her grandchildren prized highly the plants which 
she reared — and as she parted with them, from time to time, 
others took their places, and bloomed beneath her nursing 
care. Some of them were fresh and beautiful in her apart- 
ment when the hand which planted them grew cold in death. 

Another striking characteristic of this aged saint was her 
childlike faith in God. This faith was strengthened and con- 
firmed in her latest years. The Saviour whom she had so 
long trusted, she now leaned upon with a more firm and happy 
reliance. How devout and meek was her attention, while with 
folded hands she listened to the reading of God's Holy Book ! 
Her voice continued to join in singing His praises, although 
the notes which joyfully fell from her lips were feeble and tre- 
mulous. Reverently she bent her aged form in prayer, and 
poured forth her earnest soul in pure devotion, in that blessed 
spot, hallowed by these remembrances. 

In her death there was no triumph, no exultation. The 
meekness and humility which had been so strikingly exhibited 
throughout her long life, were conspicuous at its peaceful 
close. 

She fell asleep in Jesus, with a hope, full of immortality. 



' There remaiueth a rest to the people of God." 

Heb. iv. 9. 



Life — our term of mortal years, 
Life — whose exponent is breath, 

Life — the soul's career on earth, 
For ever terminate in Death. 

Life — the essence of the soul, 
Life — of second-birth the test. 

These in triumph pass through Death 
To Life with God — Eternal Rest. 



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